Love is but a Memory
by Domysticated
Summary: You were gorgeous, mysterious, haunted. I wanted to save you; I wanted to give you something you would take with you forever. I didn't know I was giving you my life.    Written for the Pick a Pic challenge, now extended.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: ****Thanks to Sandyquill, M81170 and HoochieMomma for their help and support- their generosity is outshined only by their talent.**

******Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight.**

******This story takes place sometimes in the late '80s- early '90s.**  


o o o

When I was sixteen, my parents sent me on a year-abroad exchange program to Europe. They were hoping that, away from our rainy small town, I would lose my social awkwardness and my shyness, and that I would escape the bullying and alienation of my all-American high school.

Their plan didn't quite work out. I ended up in a rainy small central European town where the skies were as grey and oppressive as our own, but without the ocean nearby to escape to. And high school… well, let's just say I exchanged an all-American hell for an all-European one. I remained shy, awkward and isolated, although mercifully the popularity of my host "sister", Alice, protected me from bullying.

That year abroad would have been a completely unremarkable blip in the sad and forgettable tale of my adolescence, had it not been for my abysmal sense of direction and my apparently non-existent sense of self-preservation.

I knew nothing of life outside the elite international school I attended, and barely paid attention when Esme and Carlisle, my host parents, discussed politics and current affairs at the dinner table.

I dutifully took the bus to school and back; I reluctantly followed Alice on her Saturday afternoon shopping trips to town; I wished the days to go quicker so I could go home and hide in my room, cocooned in familiar and comforting loneliness.

Until one day everything changed.

It was a bitterly cold February day. My math teacher was sick, and we were dismissed early. Rather than waiting two hours for the school bus, I decided to take public transport, in the hope that I'd get home earlier.

Things didn't go quite as planned.

I took the bus into town, intending to take a second bus home from there, but I must have gotten off at the wrong stop, and I soon found myself wandering in the back streets behind the railway station as darkness fell, accompanied by icy, heavy rain. I tried to ask for directions, but the unfriendly, hurried locals pretended not to understand my heavily accented French and just ignored me. Finally, defeated, I slumped onto a bench, and started to cry. I was going to have to call Esme, and I hated feeling like a fool.

I must have stayed there for a while… twenty minutes perhaps, long enough for any lingering daylight to dissipate. My tears subsided and I finally mustered the courage to get up and call her.

The flicker of a cigarette to my right distracted me.

Sitting on a low wall a feet away from me was a hunched figure. I couldn't make him out for sure, but I thought it was a man: he was sitting just outside the cone of light cast by the nearest lamppost. I jerked away, scared. I could feel his eyes staring at me intently, could guess the slow, deliberate way in which he was sucking on his cigarette; God knows how long he'd been there, observing me. He was unnaturally still. I wanted to run, I _knew_ I should run—the dark streets were deserted— but I stayed rooted to the spot.

I swallowed loudly, and attempted a small smile.

"Uh… hi. I'm… I'm lost…" Shit, I sounded so stupid. So vulnerable. _Just assault me and be done with it, will you?_

He made no movement in response to my words, and it occurred to me that, perhaps, he didn't understand English.

"_Moi… je suis perdue_." I said again, in an even more idiotic tone, ashamed, once again, of my awful accent.

"I understood you perfectly well the first time." He answered back in English- his diction clear and pure despite obvious hints of a foreign language, his tone clipped and icy. Still, he didn't move. I begun to feel uneasy, and my survival instincts finally kicked in. I started gathering up my things and stepped away, toward the dark, empty street.

"Wait." He jumped off the wall and stepped into the light. I turned around and lifted my head toward him, ready to brace myself for a menacing presence and trying to remember the basics of self-defense I'd learned from my father.

But one look at him and my resolve was lost. He was not a man, but a boy…perhaps only one or two years older than I. His clothes were old and not warm enough, his thin denim jacket wet and inadequate in the face of the wintry weather. But what really hit me was that he was devastatingly handsome, with perfect, Grecian features, intense, deep-set eyes, and wavy, disheveled brown hair. He was tall without being imposing, with a proud, erect posture that reminded me of the guys on the swim team back home.

My heart- which had been beating fast, pumped by adrenaline and nerves- missed a beat.

Up until that point I'd always thought I was not the kind of girl to be swayed by external beauty, not the shallow, superficial type whose head could spin just at the sight of a pretty boy. I didn't care about actors, or singers, or any of the heartthrobs who plastered Alice's walls. And yet when I saw _him_… I'm pretty sure that it was his looks alone that made me stay, when I should have run.

"You said you were lost. Where do you need to go?" His tone was still clipped, an unnatural intonation betraying his foreignness, the consonants hard and unexpectedly musical. But there was kindness there, too, and somehow, against my better judgment, I decided to trust him.

"I need bus number 27. I thought it was here but… I don't know. These streets all look the same…" Tears welled up in my eyes again, more in frustration at my own stupidity than anything else at that stage.

He let out a small, neutral laugh. "Yes. They all look very alike. I know where the 27 stops, I can take you there if you want."

I hesitated. Not that I actually had any better options, but still… it felt wrong to follow him too willingly… who knew who, or what he was.

"I will not bite, you know." There was a sadness in his tone that warmed me toward him and erased any lingering distrust.

"Okay."

I pulled my backpack on and we started walking down the road, in silence, maintaining a distance between us. He was pale and tired looking, I noticed now, and from the slight tremor in his hands and the way he hunched his shoulders, I guessed he must be really cold.

After a while the silence unnerved me, and I attempted to make conversation.

"So... do you live around here?"

"Yes, something like that," was his short, final answer. It didn't invite a follow up question, so I didn't ask one.

In truth, I was curious. I wanted to know what his name was, where he lived, where he went to school. I wanted to know where he was from, and how long he had lived here. I wanted to know what he was doing sitting on a wall, smoking a cigarette on such a horrible evening.

But I didn't ask any of those questions. I just walked with him, trying to keep up with his fast, long-strided steps.

Finally, we converged into a busier street, and I started recognizing familiar landmarks. There was the department store where Esme had taken me to buy new gloves; there, the bookshop that sometimes carried the New York Times. It was busier here, and any lingering sense of dread receded. Soon, I spotted the bus stop, and relief flooded me.

The boy motioned to it with his head, and waited a few feet behind me while I checked the timetable. _Shit_. I'd just missed it, and the next one wouldn't be for another 40 minutes. Esme and Carlisle would be worried first, and then pissed off. I guess I should have tried to call them but, somehow, the thought didn't even enter my head. Instead, I slumped back down on the bench – luckily it was a sheltered bus stop, because the rain had picked up and turned to sleet—and resigned myself to waiting. The boy hesitated, unsure of what to do, then, with a sigh, sat down on the bench next to me, maintaining a safe distance as he had all along.

"Oh, you don't have to wait for me, you know… it's fine, thanks. You've been very kind already but I'll be okay now." I hurried to reassure him, and perhaps tried to make him leave, a new nervousness at his presence taking hold of me.

He just shrugged.

"It's not like I have anywhere else to be. I'll just wait here with you, if that's okay." He lit another cigarette, pulled up the collar of his jacket, and stared fixedly into the space ahead.

"I thought you said you lived nearby."

"Yes, well, I don't particularly want to go back there, so…" He didn't turn to look at me while he spoke.

I heard it again, the sadness and shame in his voice. I guess, with hindsight, that it was that, coupled with the fact that he looked so vulnerable in his odd clothes and scruffy, out of fashion trainers, that made me feel so uncharacteristically bold with him, when normally I was shy and quiet and incapable of intelligent speech in the presence of a member of the opposite sex.

"Uh, okay." I paused a little, gathering courage."What's your name?"

He turned to me then, stunned.

"You want to know my name?"

"Yeah… is that unusual?"

He shook his head, and looked straight ahead once more.

"Edward. You can call me Edward." The name sounded exotic and tentative on his lips.

"I'm Bella." I extended my hand, then withdrew it, realizing the gesture made me look like a toddler. I tried to cover up my dorky gesture by speaking too much, too fast.

"I'm American, you know, from Washington. Washington State, not D.C., which is what everyone immediately assumes. I'm here on an exchange program. You're not from here, either, right?"

He laughed. A hollow, bitter laugh.

"No, I'm not from here. I guess you could say I'm on an exchange program, too."

"Where do you go to school?"

"I don't."

"You don't go to school? How old are you?"

He turned around, fully this time, facing me, and in the process he moved that much closer to me. Close enough that I could make out the color in his tired eyes—green. Close enough that I could see his long, thick eyelashes and the faint stubble that covered his cheeks.

_Not close enough. _

"You ask a lot of questions you know? Is that an American thing? I heard you are all so greedy and curious… you think you own the world, and deserve to know everything about everybody."

He shut his eyes, his expression almost pained, while I flinched at the harshness of his words.

He relaxed a bit, and took a deep breath. "Sorry. That was very rude, please accept my apologies. I don't know you but I'm sure you're very nice." His words were formal and solemn. He turned to look at me, a small smile softening his features. "I am seventeen years old."

We stayed silent after that. He continued to smoke—I had never seen anyone so young smoke so much in my whole life. Finally, as the bus pulled in at the top of the street, he turned to me again.

"Well, it was nice to meet you, Bella. Please be safe and don't get lost again. And don't trust people so easily." He stood up and started walking away. I found my voice just in time.

"Edward! Stop! I… how can I see you again?"

He didn't even pause, but continued to walk ahead—shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets.

"You know where to find me." His voice lingered on, long after he'd turned the corner.

o o o

I didn't tell anyone of my strange encounter. Somehow, I knew something was different about Edward, and that perhaps I wasn't really supposed to have met him—that our paths should never have crossed. I also knew, instinctively, that I should not seek him out, that I should forget about that day and be thankful things hadn't taken a different, darker turn.

I knew all that and I was resolved to do the right thing. After all, that's who I was: the girl who did the right thing. The girl too scared to do otherwise.

I lasted three days. On the fourth, I acted. I told Esme and Alice that I had a study group after school and took the bus into town. I tried really hard to retrace my steps, to find that bench and that wall.

I failed.

I should have given up then. I didn't. If anything, I became even more obsessed with finding him.

The next day I skipped class and tried again. This time, I found the spot. It was deserted, forlorn. But I noticed the cigarette butts on the ground, by the wall, and took it as my sign to return.

I had to let a few days go, wait for the right opportunity. It came soon enough— that Saturday, I went into town with Alice. It wasn't hard to lose her: a vague mention of a bookshop, and she was only too eager to spend some time alone with her boyfriend.

I got to the bench and sat down. Edward was nowhere to be seen, but I had time. I took a book out of my backpack, pulled up my knees to my chest, and started reading. It was cold, but not raining. Not that rain would have made a difference.

I waited.

And he came.

He sat down next to me and smiled. I smiled back and probably blushed. I felt suddenly shy, all the boldness and certainty abandoning me now that I had reached my goal. He reached out for my book and, carefully, without losing my mark, he bent forward to see the title. He smiled again, handing it back.

"It's a good book."

"Yeah… I love it."

We sat like that, next to each other, almost touching but not quite, for several minutes. He was just as handsome as I remembered him, although in my memory I had erased all the flaws, the inevitable signs of humanity: the tired eyes, the too-long hair, the slightly crooked teeth.

Even now, I have to force myself to remember that he wasn't, in fact, perfect: that he was just human. In my memory, he's still supernaturally perfect.

So close, I was able to smell him, and his scent—cigarettes and soap, with something else, something I'd never encountered before. It was a surprisingly adult scent, and that gave away more of his history than any words he'd uttered to date.

Occasionally, we turned toward each other and smiled awkwardly until finally, he spoke.

"You found me, see? You're a smart girl. Also crazy—you're not supposed to go after boys like that, especially strange boys you meet in the street after dark." His face became suddenly serious. "Promise you'll never do this again."

"What? Find you?"

"No… trust strangers… especially boys." His tone was solemn: it was something that my dad could have said to me. In fact, it was probably something that my dad _had_ said to me in the past.

"Does it mean I shouldn't trust you?"

"You probably shouldn't, no."

"I want to, though." Who was this bold, brave girl speaking? Was it really me? Where did she find the courage and the determination?

He looked at me, nervously, and in his eyes I saw thoughts and emotions that I couldn't read, couldn't understand. I was in uncharted territory, and it was disorienting and intoxicating, like a new drink or a new food, and I wanted to taste it, savor it. Devour it.

Then, without notice or further words, he leaned in and kissed me.

I'd be lying if I said that's what I expected my first kiss to be like. For one thing, I didn't anticipate it, and surprise overrode any other emotion I felt then. It was very brief, so brief… almost a dare.

Almost as if he was daring me not to trust him.

I took the dare, and kissed him back. Not knowing what I was doing but determined to do it right. He stood perfectly still at first, his lips as unmoving and cold as those of a statue. This only made me more determined, and finally he relented. His lips parted and a soft, whooshy sound came from deep inside him. One hand went into my hair and down toward my neck, while the other pulled me toward him so I was almost sitting in his lap. His tongue sought mine, and I tasted him then—cigarettes, mint, and rain—and my body awakened to countless unknown sensations. I didn't have a name for what I felt then, but now I know what it was… lust and desire, and the giddy, intoxicating intensity of experiencing those feelings for the first time.

We kissed for a long time that day, alternating hungry, almost angry motions with softer, tender ones. His long, slender, cold fingers found my hands and held them tight, as if he needed my grip to control himself.

We barely said a word to each other.

In the end it was the impending nightfall that pulled us apart. I had to go get to Alice. Go home.

"I have to go."

"I know." The mask of indifference was back on his face. "Will you be back?"

"Yes… yes I will. On Monday."

He nodded and lit up a cigarette. I held out my hand one more time; he took it, brought it to his face, then kissed it lightly, like an old-fashioned gentleman.

I walked away and left him behind. Immobile, unreadable.

o o o

I went back on Monday. And on Thursday. And on Saturday.

Soon I was skipping classes, making excuses, finding every possible way to meet Edward. He wasn't always there, at what I thought of as "our" place, but I had no way to contact him and he'd never asked for my number. I accepted this as just the way things were. Crazy as it sounds, the uncertainty, the sense of randomness and possibility of our encounters made them even more special in my eyes.

When we were apart, I couldn't stop thinking about him. It was an obsession. I relived every single minute we spent together, remembered sensations— his touch, his smell, his taste— in such vivid detail I shivered and tingled all over.

When we were together, I lost myself in him and willed him to lose himself in me. I realized early on that he didn't like to talk, that he hated when I asked questions. Sorrow and shame and desperation appeared so often in his eyes; I did everything in my power to keep those feelings at bay, and acquiesced to all his conditions, spoken and unspoken.

Sometimes, when the weather was just too bad, we'd go to a depressing little café in one of the backstreets. I'd drink a hot chocolate or a tea. Never, in all of the months we knew each other, did he take anything more than a glass of water. He never ordered anything, and never let me order anything for him.

I occasionally tried to buy him a drink or food. I tried to give him one of my books once. He refused, proud and scarily determined. Looking back, I'm angry that I never questioned this, than I never insisted.

"I will never take anything from you unless I can give you something back."

I understood, in an instinctive and unfocused way, that I had to respect this, allow him this dignity, and so I let it go. Another condition he laid down, another condition I did not question.

o o o

Most of the time, however, we stayed outdoors.

Our encounters grew bolder, hungrier, and more frantic. There was a small park nearby and we walked there, hiding between the trees, gradually pushing through boundaries in our mutual desire to get closer. Hands grew bolder, mouths grew hungrier, and my body showed me all the things of which I had no prior knowledge.

The weather was getting warmer, and the park started to fill up. It was just a matter of time before someone spotted us, and I was growing uncomfortable with being so intimate with Edward in public; at the same time, I sensed his growing frustration at our stunted physical relationship. He wanted more. I wanted more too, and above all I wanted to give him something of mine, something that he would accept.

On one particularly grey day, as we lay panting behind a tree- his hands having fought and lost a battle with my tight jeans, his breath labored and erratic- he turned toward me and grabbed my hand. He avoided my eyes as he told me, in a strangled voice, half commanding, half pleading:

"Come with me."

I followed him without question, as I did everything with him. We walked perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, farther into the backstreets behind the station that I'd been told, repeatedly, to avoid. He held my hand tightly and kept me close to him, stealing glances to make sure I was okay, without daring to say anything.

We arrived, finally, in front of an old, derelict hotel. It was the sort of building that might have once been respectable and proper, but was anything but these days. The door was open, and I caught glimpses of a gloomy, badly illuminated lobby with worn carpets and uneven flooring. We stood outside, and Edward tightened his hold on my hand once more. He turned to face me, leaning down so I could look at him: his face was contorted by a myriad emotions that I had seen before, but never so intense, never so clear. Shame, sadness, anger and fear passed in waves over his eyes, making my heart flutter and beat so strongly it almost knocked the breath out of me.

"You don't have to come in." He finally said, steeling himself, apparently resigned to my imminent flight.

But there was something else in his face, something desperate and pleading and immensely vulnerable; a hunger for tenderness, for human touch, a loneliness that begged to be eased, a glint of hope that refused to be vanquished.

I lifted my hand to brush his hair away from his forehead, and caressed his cheek as softly as I could.

"I trust you."

He leaned down, his eyes closed, and touched my forehead with his. He brushed his lips against my hair, and pulled me close, his arm protectively around my shoulder.

We stepped in, my heart beating furiously. The lobby was deserted, and so were the dimly illuminated stairs. I could hear sounds—of music, of voices, of an animated conversation in a foreign language—somewhere in the distance. I buried my face deeper into Edward's chest, desperate to seek some familiarity in this place that was so alien and threatening.

We went up two flights of stairs and walked all the way down a long corridor. Edward paused in front of the last door, disentangling his arm from my shoulders, and fished out a key from his pocket. He opened the door, and I held my breath before going in.

I don't know what I'd been expecting. Inside, it was just a modest hotel room—old and tired, with evidence of many years of neglect and decay. But it was also clean and tidy, despite being obviously lived in. There were two twin beds, a sink with a mirror—I noticed two toothbrushes and a razor, and a small, rickety table with a stack of books on it.

Edward closed the door softly and stood, waiting for my reaction, probably waiting for me to flee.

Suddenly I was full of questions— was this where he lived? Why? With whom? What was his story?

I stepped toward him, ready to exact explanations, interpretations, reassurances.

He stood in a corner, his shoulders tense, his eyes downcast, nervously biting his lip.

Instead of asking questions, I wrapped my arms around his waist, and stood up on tiptoes to kiss him. I kissed him harder than I ever had; I kissed him with fervor, passion, unbridled devotion. Whatever was in this room… I didn't care. I wanted to erase his doubts, to banish the demons that were fighting to take control of him. I wanted him to feel alive.

We kissed and touched and shed our clothes before falling into bed. I held my breath, seeing him naked for the first time—he was perfect, gorgeous, and to this day I still remember how glorious his pale skin looked in the grey light that filtered through the curtains. I shivered in fear and delight.

The sheets felt rough against my semi-naked skin, but they smelled clean, they smelled of him. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.

"Does someone else live here?" I managed to ask as he unhooked my bra, before I lost all capacity for speech and sunk into a storm of intense and contrasting emotions—nerves battling with lust, self-consciousness with desire.

"My brother. He won't be back before tonight."

He kissed me then, starting at my neck, and plunging down towards my breasts. He brought one hand to caress me there, gently at first, then more insistently. His hand and mouth met as he kissed and licked and bit and touched, eliciting sounds that I didn't believe I could produce. He had done this before, that much was clear, and strangely, instead of feeling jealous, I was glad of it; glad of his experience, glad to let him take the lead.

He trembled slightly as he removed my panties, pausing to look at me.

"Is this okay?" he asked absurdly, as if I hadn't just followed him to a strange hotel, as if we weren't nearly naked and writhing with want. As if I could stop now.

I think I laughed, just a bit, and nodded.

He had touched me there before, quickly and hurriedly, but this time he took his time to explore and invade. The shock of his fingers deep inside me almost made me scream, and he retreated slightly, before starting again more tenderly, more slowly. He alternated light kisses – on my lips, neck, ears—with hushed endearments in a language I didn't understand. It sounded exotic and impossibly sweet. Gradually I relaxed into his touch, and he picked up a rhythm again, his hands growing bolder, his movements more erratic.

I held him tight, so tight, not daring to move too much, not really knowing what I wanted to do, what I could do.

He pulled the blankets over us and shook his head when I motioned to move my hands; so I kept them on his shoulders, my fingernails digging into his flesh.

I lost my virginity that day. It was painful, and there was blood involved. But I didn't care because I finally felt a real connection with Edward; I finally knew I'd given him some tangible comfort. Finally, I'd given him a gift he could accept.

Afterwards, he held me for a long time, his fingers tapping an unknown melody on my back.

"What are you doing?"

"Shhhh…." His voice was a faraway, dreamy whisper. "I'm playing you."

"Like a piano?" I smiled.

"Yes, like a piano." He leaned forward and kissed my shoulder with a tenderness I'd never experienced before. His fingers continued their work, at times feathery light, others hard and fast.

o o o

It became a routine. I would meet him at our usual place, we would walk back to the hotel and have sex. We became better at it, more in tune with each other's needs and predilections, and I started enjoying it more and more. He taught me how to relax, how to go deep inside my body, how to surrender to pleasure. He taught me to delight in our physical connection, to celebrate the ecstasy we could bring to each other.

I could see how much he needed it, how much he needed the release, the oblivion. When he climaxed, he looked absent, otherworldly. He also looked young, the frowns in his forehead smoothing over as he closed his eyes and rolled his head backwards, lost in the intensity of his orgasm. I wanted to see this face over and over, and he teased me that I was insatiable.

But really… I was insatiable for the boy he was afterwards: the tension left his face, the sadness evaporated for a few short hours, even the heavy cloud of shame that hung on to him receded. He held me, sang me sweet songs and verses of poetry, and bit by bit he told me about himself.

I pieced together the story over a number of weeks. He was a refugee. His home country had been under a brutal regime for many decades, and his parents had been political dissidents since he was a baby. They had been imprisoned over five years ago, and he knew nothing of their fate. He and his brother had lived with his grandmother until she died, days before his brother's eighteenth birthday. With no tangible family ties left, and the threat of impending military service, they fled. He didn't really want to talk about the details or the logistics of how they'd gotten here, and all he was willing to share about his current situation was that he was waiting for his asylum application to be reviewed and, in the meantime, he wasn't supposed to work or go to school- he wasn't supposed to exist. I never once saw his brother, but I understood he was working, illegally, on a construction site somewhere, and that Edward was desperate to join him, but his brother wouldn't let him.

"He thinks… he still thinks I might, one day, play the piano again... he doesn't want me to spoil my hands."

His voice constricted, and when I looked at him, I could see his eyes were full of tears that he was desperately trying to fight back. I kissed each of his long, perfect fingers in turn, then made love to him again.

"I won't stay here, I promise you; I won't have this non-life forever. I will make something of myself, somewhere else. Maybe I'll come to America…" his voice was solemn and serious. I kissed him, and he smiled. "I will play the piano again."

It killed me to think he didn't have access to any of the things he needed, any of the things he should have had a right to: school, an instrument, the possibility of working. It pained me to go home at night, have a hot, nutritious meal with a happy family, go to sleep in my soft bed, go to school and neglect my homework and achieve my usual mediocre results when he was wasting away his intelligence, his hope, his dignity.

During those short, intense, frenzied afternoons, as we lay in his narrow bed, grey light filtering through the curtains, spring rain pelting the windows… we were equals. Naked, united by our need, joined by our hunger for each other. All our differences disappeared, and we could almost believe the charade that we were just two normal teenagers exploring their bodies and their hearts, without a care in the world. I didn't want to break that spell, reveal the charade for what it was- a cruel lie, with a too-short expiration date.

Because something else killed me, even though I tried to push it away to the recesses of my conscience: time was running out. I only had a few more weeks before I was due to fly back to Washington. Edward and I had never discussed our future; well, shit, we'd never even discussed our pasts, or our presents for that matter. We existed in a bubble of stolen hours and minutes, hiding from reality, hiding from ourselves.

The end, when it came, was not at all how I expected it. There were no goodbyes, no gifts exchanged, no declarations. No teary kisses, no desperate caresses to savor the last of each other.

I went to our meeting place and found it empty, day after day. After a week or two, I gathered up the courage to go to his hotel— he had always forbidden me to go look for him there. There were unfamiliar faces hovering around, and I grew increasingly distressed looking for someone who spoke English. A small group of people assembled, curious, and closed in on me: the panic of not seeing Edward mixed with the claustrophobic feeling of being surrounded by strangers is one of the most intense, dreadful feelings I've ever experienced. My breath still hitches in my chest just thinking about it.

They'd gone, apparently moved to another centre; no one knew where. Had their applications been decided? Had they been accepted as political refugees, given papers, installed somewhere else, somewhere more permanent? Or had they been deported back to their country, to an uncertain and dangerous future? No one knew, or no one would tell me.

He was gone.

0 0 0

Much as I wanted my life to end, it didn't. It went on, in fact, as predictably and regularly as if nothing had changed, nothing had happened.

I went back to Forks. I spent a lonely, anguished summer crying myself to sleep every night and withdrawing deeper into myself, gradually slipping further out of reach of even those few who cared enough to reach out at all.

I graduated high school and posed in awkward pictures with my parents that are still gracing their mantelpiece.

I went to college, got my useless degree in International Relations, got more embarrassing pictures to prove it. I drifted into grad school for lack of a better plan, and ended up doing a PhD because that seemed the easiest option. I am an expert, now, in the geopolitics of central Europe.

I've dated. I've had short, depressing relationships that brought out the worst in me.

Sometimes I wonder whether this list of facts, of achievements, of landmark moments constitutes a life.

_My life. _

It is a good life, on the surface of things; my parents are proud of me, I have my own apartment, a respectable shoe collection. I've seen Nirvana live, twice, and have a Kurt Cobain autograph stuck to my fridge.

I could be just another vaguely dissatisfied, unremarkably unhappy young woman, one of many, drifting along into this grey existence.

I could, but I can't.

If I'd never known fire, I could live with the cold; if I'd never known ecstasy, I could live with my solitude.

If I'd never known love, I would not know its absence.

_Love. _

I know, now, that this is what it was. It wasn't just the desperation, the hunger, or a misguided sense of breaking a taboo. It wasn't just the fact that Edward was a handsome, mysterious boy with elegant hands and a hypnotic voice. It wasn't just that he made me feel wanted and beautiful and needed. It wasn't just his fingers, or his hair, or those deep, sad eyes with the long luscious eyelashes. It wasn't just his deep gravelly voice, or the way he sang to me, or the smell of cigarettes and rain that was so uniquely his.

It was all of these things, and more.

I want to scream at my sixteen-year old self that she'll never feel that way again. That she'll never have another orgasm. That she'll never feel so alive, so wanted, so worshipped.

That she should be brave and defiant and demanding, and she should go looking for him after he's gone, stalk public offices, ask the police for his whereabouts. Get the Embassy involved… Something. Do something.

Don't let life, with its inexorable, steady advance, take over and sweep it all away.

Don't let it all be a dream, a memory fading into nothing as the months and years go by.

A memory of bodies, of whispered words, of ephemeral scents and fumbling touches. A memory filling every void in my consciousness until I no longer know what is real and what is merely an unfulfilled, unfulfillable desire.

A promise… a promise offered in the soft, ecstatic afterglow of lovemaking, and heard so many times in my mind and heart I no longer trust myself to believe I didn't dream it.

"I'll come to America, one day. I'll find you. Like you found me."

o o o

It's been ten years, and he still hasn't found me.

I'm still waiting.

o o o

**A/N: What do you think? Will she wait forever, or will he one day find her?**


	2. Chapter 2

o o o

"Shit!"

The straight cut darkens the palm of my left hand. I'm paralyzed for a long moment; blood seeps through and runs down my fingers and wrist, and when I finally manage to reach out for a towel I'm shaking and the wound is throbbing.

The towel is soon soaked with red and I have to force myself to swallow down the panic and look at it: it's deeper than I thought, and bleeding fast. It's late, I'm alone, and I can't quite think straight; I grab the phone and call a taxi.

It's past ten p.m. by the time I reach the ER, and the waiting room is predictably full- it's a Saturday night, after all, and the evidence of a weekend of excesses is everywhere. I fill in the necessary forms and settle into a chair, resigned to a long wait.

I must have fallen asleep because when my name is called I jerk up, disoriented, not able to recall where I am.

An impatient voice calls my name again, louder this time- "Isabella Swan!" - and I stand up and make my way toward the woman with the clipboard. She looks tired and harassed, the yellow lights casting unkind lights on her sallow skin.

She motions me into one of the curtained-off exam areas. "The doctor will be with you shortly."

A glance at my watch reveals it's almost one a.m_. Fuck, so late_. My hand hurts, and I'm light-headed—a combination of tiredness and hunger, because, of course, I never got to eat the dinner I had just started to prepare, and lunch was more than twelve hours ago.

Leaning back against the gurney, I take in my depressing surroundings—the graying curtains, the harsh light—and the noises all around me. It's busy but strangely quiet, nothing at all like what you come to expect from seeing this kind of things on TV. Mostly I hear the sounds of hurried steps, and objects being pushed around, and occasionally some muffled conversations.

Finally, after another half an hour of waiting, a doctor walks in; he's middle aged, distracted, and doesn't bother with introductions: he scans my chart, then examines my hand silently. In less than one minute, he's done and gets up to leave. Almost as an afterthought he stops and tells me quickly: "A nurse will be over shortly to stitch it up, and I'll give you some antibiotics and painkillers to take home. You should be fine in a couple of days."

He walks off before I have time to ask questions. Some more waiting, and finally the curtain opens with a flourish and a huge man in blue nursing scrubs walks in.

He's so big the little curtained-off area suddenly feels minuscule. And then he speaks, and fills it completely.

"Well, hello pretty lady!"

He's loud and exuberant and this explosion of presence and sound and attention lifts my spirits after the long, silent wait.

"So, what do we have here?"

He reaches for my chart, scans it quickly, then takes my hand, still wrapped in a temporary bandage.

"My name is Emmett and I'm going to stitch up your wound," he says while looking at me straight in the eye.

His gaze causes me to jerk, startled, and I don't quite know why. He looks away from me before I can fully process his features.

He takes my hand. "This may sting a bit, but I'm going do it real quick for you. You just lie back and try to be as still as you can, okay?"

My hand looks tiny in his gigantic, gloved paws. For a moment I wonder whether he can actually do stitches—surely his hands are just too big for the precision work that's required?— but he seems to be completely in command of what he's doing. He swabs my skin with anesthetic and chats to me gently about inconsequential things. I know it's a trick to distract me, but I'm grateful for it nonetheless.

"So, pretty lady, wanna tell me how this happened?"

"I was just cutting some tomatoes, but I guess my head was somewhere else, as usual, and, you know…" Let my voice trail, I look away from what he's doing—it does sting, and I know that if I look, it will actually hurt. I clench my teeth and grip the bed with my free hand.

He chuckles good-naturedly and resumes talking.

"Yeah, I know. You were unlucky though, picked a bad time for it… in the future try avoiding cooking accidents on a Saturday night, you know? Full house here."

There's something about the way he speaks… something that seems at once strange and familiar, and it unsettles me and confuses me. His voice is kind and gently musical, with vowels closing unexpectedly and consonants rolling faster than normal. I have the feeling I'm missing something, something important, and I wish I wasn't this tired and weak. Something is up, but without my full wits about me I am unable to grasp it.

Just as the gears in my brain are starting to finally engage, he finishes up my stitches and bandages up my hand carefully, before popping off his silicone gloves.

"Okay. All done here. The doctor has left a prescription for you—antibiotics and some Tylenol. You can go see your primary physician in a week to remove the stitches."

He extends one of his huge arms to help me up. In doing so, he brings me face to face with him, and I see his deep green eyes and his long dark eyelashes clearly for the first time; a rush of adrenaline surges through me, causing me to grip his muscular bicep and hold his gaze far longer than I should. Something… there's something there, something I should know, and don't.

Whatever my body knows, my mind cannot register, and I'm left feeling confused and agitated.

"Everything okay, pretty lady?"

He mistakes my stare for dizziness or evidence of pain.

I shake my head. "Yeah…yeah I'm good. Just, you know… you seem familiar."

He laughs. "Everyone tells me that. My wife says it's because I look like Jabba the Hutt."

That makes me smile, because he doesn't: he's actually quite attractive and although his size should be threatening, there's a calm and gentleness to his ways that inspires confidence rather than discomfort.

He walks me to the front door, an unnecessary and welcome gesture; I take a taxi home, and finally fall into my bed, exhausted.

o o o

The next morning I wake up far too early, and as I open my eyes I know I haven't had nearly enough sleep: but my stomach is rumbling and my hand is throbbing and I urgently need food and painkillers.

I sit down at my kitchen table to eat some cereal and milk and gradually, as consciousness and lucidity return to me, I become aware of a growing feeling of unease. My mind spins around in circles, trying to grasp an important detail that keeps hiding, stubborn and recalcitrant, somewhere in my subconscious.

I get up to rinse my bowl, awkwardly and clumsily with only one hand. I look up from the sink and out of the window, and it's a grey, humid day, with air so thick it looks like it might just liquefy at any moment. I turn the bowl over and over, absent-mindedly rinsing it long after it's completely clean. I stare outside, the water now running cold over my hand.

With a loud, clattering noise the bowl falls into the sink and it's as if a jolt of lightning hits me at once. Suddenly, out of nowhere, everything falls into place. Images and sounds of last night's hospital trip start flashing into my head, and I can hear the big nurse's voice, and see his eyes, and it all brings back another voice, another set of eyes.

The same musical, exotic intonation; the same rolled consonants and tight vowels; the same green, the same eyelashes.

_The same. _

It cannot be.

It has to be.

It _has_ to be.

In a daze, I move back toward my couch and sink down. Stunned, confused, I will myself to overpower those runaway thoughts.

I was tired, and in pain: it could have been anyone. He could have been from anywhere in the world. I could have dreamed it all. I probably dreamed it all, like I dream of _him_ so often. How can I even remember what he sounds like, what he looks like?

It's been so long… so, so long.

Disturbed, I step into the shower to try and erase the crazy notion that has infiltrated my head and obliterate all memories of the nurse—what was his name? Edmund? Elmer? Emmett. _Emmett_—and all conjectures of unlikely accents and impossible physical resemblances.

I get dressed, take my medicine. I take out my papers, switch on my computer and try to settle down to work: the words on the screen dance and blur and blend and all I achieve is a pounding headache and a rising sense of panic.

I try to push it all away. I go out, I take a long walk; back home, exhausted, I sit in front of the TV to watch a popular sitcom about a group of impossibly handsome people living in an impossibly cute New York.

I wake up in the middle of the night, still fully dressed on the sofa, the light of the TV flickering, my heart pounding, my palms sweating.

_It cannot be. _

I try sleeping again. I fail.

I go to work the next day and sit vacantly in my office all day, my fingers ghosting the keyboard, my mind twisting and knotting along with my stomach.

I've been here before—this obsession, this fear, this compulsion to pursue the impossible. This single-minded determination to humiliate myself. I know better than to try and fight it, and I recognize, with absolute clarity, that I have already succumbed to it.

o o o

On Monday night, I am pushing the doors of the emergency room and making my way determinedly to the triage nurse. It's quiet tonight, nothing like last Saturday.

"Hi." My voice is too soft, too timid.

The woman behind the glass window—a different one from last time- raises her head and peaks at me from over her glasses. "How may I help you?"

"I… my name is Isabella Swan, I was here Saturday night for some stitches. I was… I was wondering if I could speak to the nurse who looked after me? I think his name was Emmett"

She looks suspicious. "Why? Is there a problem with your stitches? Do you need to see a doctor?"

"No, no, nothing like that, my stitches are fine… it's just… it's personal, I need to ask him something."

As the words leave my mouth I take in the woman's hard, cold stare and I realize I'm doing this all wrong.

"Listen lady, this is a hospital, you understand? A hospital emergency room, to be precise, so unless you've got a good medical reason to be here, you're going to need to leave. We're not a dating agency."

To underline her disinterest, she pointedly returns to her paperwork and makes a show of ignoring me.

"Look, I'm really sorry to bother you, but I swear it's nothing like that. When I say it's personal, I didn't mean… I just… Look, can you at least tell me if he's working tonight? Or tell him that I'm here, and I'm going to be in the waiting room, and whenever he has a moment he can come out?"

She's raised her head again and is looking at me as though she's trying to decide whether she should help me or not. I imagine she's quite used to dealing with weirdos, and that she often has to make decisions on the spot: she's trying to figure out whether I'm worth the risk of deviating from standard procedure.

I make one last effort to appeal to her. "Please. It's really important."

She snaps, visibly impatient and irritated. "Fine. Take a seat, and I'll tell him to come find you if he has time at some point tonight."

I sink into the nearest chair, exhausted, and prepare for a long wait.

o o o

I wait for a few hours. I drink stale coffee from the vending machine. I observe the varied humanity ebbing and flowing around me, and try to construct back-stories for all of them to pass the time. I get alternatively scared and depressed at the litany of ailments and wounds and afflictions of the body and mind that take people to this place.

I am leafing through the pages of a book—something for work, too dry and dense to hold my attention in a public waiting room—when I hear my name being called. There he is.

He looks tired tonight, his huge shoulders hunched and heavy, his eyes smaller and older than I remember. I walk up to him, and he motions me to the entrance door, under the disapproving stare of the unfriendly nurse.

I look at him intently, simultaneously taking in all the clues that support my theory—his eyes… How many people in the world can have eyes that green? Eyelashes that long?—and trying to shut down the rational part of my brain that's telling me to run now before I embarrass myself and get disappointed.

"You've been looking for me? How may I help you?"

He smiles—because he's trained to smile, but also because he's used to smiling, I think—but it's clear he doesn't remember who I am.

I wave up my bandaged hand in explanation and speak quickly.

"Yeah, hi… remember? You stitched me up on Saturday? Knife cut? It's okay, it was pretty late."

A flicker of recognition passes through his face, and with it, a look of puzzlement.

"Yes, yes I remember. Everything okay?"

The way he rolls the consonants, the way he says okay- my stomach flutters and jumps at the foreignness of it all, and yet my limbs warm up at the familiarity of the accent- and I take all this as further evidence, and it emboldens me, spurs me to go on.

An edge of fear and hysteria creeps up on me, and I shift from foot to foot, suddenly nervous. Clasping my hands together, I lower my voice.

"Yes, fine, thanks… I was… I was just wondering if you have time for a quick coffee? You know? I have something that I would like to ask you."

His smile falters and he hesitates. I can see he has no idea what I want to ask him, and that worries him.

"I don't know… what is this about?" The smile is completely gone now, and his tone is harder, determined. The friendly, warm attitude is gone—he's diffident. I try to remind myself that if I'm right, if he is who I think he is, he would be wary of strangers with unexpected questions and unclear motives.

Nervously, I swallow and tuck my hair behind my ears.

"It's… it's only going to be a quick conversation, I promise… and I'm sorry to come here, at your work… I just… I just need to be sure about something, and I think maybe you can help me."

I look up at him and try to smile.

He nods minutely and motions me towards a corridor. "I only have a few minutes though…"

We finally get to a small waiting area with a vending machine and a couple of chairs around an old, chipped table.

He digs for some coins in his pocket and gets himself a coffee; he doesn't gesture to me, doesn't offer me a drink, just sits down and waits for me to do the same.

I lower myself into the chair and take a deep breath. My heart is beating fast, too fast, and I have to remember to breathe in and out evenly.

"So… you know, the other night… I told you you looked familiar, but at the time I couldn't quite place why…"

He looks up from his coffee and fixes his gaze on me, visibly puzzled. I continue.

"So, anyway, it was mostly the way you spoke, you know? It reminded me of someone I used to know." I blush despite myself, as a strikingly clear picture of Edward flashes before my eyes, bringing with it a long-forgotten pang of pain and loss. "So, you know, I realize this is kind of silly, but I wanted to ask you… where are you from?"

He freezes. His eyes are suddenly cold, hard, unforgiving.

"I'm from Chicago, and you have no business asking."

I can sense this is not going how I'd hoped. I blurt out the country Edward came from, followed by where I'd met him years before.

His hands grip the plastic cup and I fear he might just squeeze it and destroy it. His eyes, fixed on me, are icy and dangerous. I shiver.

"You don't know what you're talking about, lady."

Tears are building up in my eyes No, no tears... I can't look weak and crazy now.

"You're right, I don't know much about it… but it's just… I knew someone from there once, and I would give anything I have to find him again, so forgive me if I sound crazy, but I have to ask you…"

He stands up, and he's huge, imposing, and absolutely terrifying.

"You need to leave."

He starts walking off and I follow him, grabbing his huge arm.

"Please, please. Just hear me out. Do you know him? Do you know Edward?" My voice is shrill, begging, almost overpowered by sobs.

Emmett stops abruptly and turns to face me. I fear my legs will give way. A look of absolute anger flashes in his eyes. It's raw and predatory and tells me he'll stop at nothing to get rid of me.

And I know then. I know I'm right.

He towers over me, absolutely still, and leans down. His lips are compressed into a thin, furious line, his eyes are shooting fire, his face is mere inches from mine.

"You need to leave. You need to leave us alone. Whoever the fuck you are, I never want to see you again, understand?"

Despairing tears running down my face, I hang on to him. I'm so close, so close to _him_, it can't end here. "Please… please… you have to tell him, tell him I was here, tell him I'm here, that I'm looking for him, that I never stopped thinking about him, that I've never forgotten him. That I want to see him… please."

He shakes my hand off easily—a jolt of pain shooting through my shoulder from the violence of his gesture- and strides away; I scamper after him, digging in my pockets for something with which to write a message. I unearth one of my business cards, a precious status symbol I never have a chance to use, and run up to him. I'm out of time; this will have to do.

He tries to ignore me and walk ahead, but I don't relent. I push my card into his fisted hand. 'Please, please just take this… give it to him, he'll know who I am, and if he wants to see me… he'll know where to find me… I promise I'll never bother you again, I promise, but please just take my card, please."

People are staring – I'm almost shrieking now. I' m making a scene and I know that any minute now someone will call security and I'll be in trouble. Emmett looks around, self-conscious and angry, and snatches the card from me. He pockets it and leans down once again to look me in the eyes.

"If I ever see you again I swear I'll call the cops on you. So you better make good on your promise and walk out of here. And never come back."

I nod, crying freely now, and whimper once again, "Okay, I promise, but please… please give my card to Edward… please."

He holds my stare a while longer, then walks away. I watch his retreating form and hear the whispering of people around me. Gathering the last shreds of strength and dignity I possess, I make my unsteady way out.

o o o

I don't know what I expected. I've spent the last few days in hell, constantly on edge, constantly convinced that Edward will call me, or email me, that I will see him.

Every morning I wake up thinking today will be the day.

Every night I go to bed dreaming it will be tomorrow.

Every day, until the days pile up on top of each other, and I start losing hope. _He might not come. He will not come. _

I replay my conversation with Emmett over and over again, latching on every word, on every detail. He never admitted to knowing Edward. I realize, with a startling stab of pain, he never admitted that Edward was here or that he was even alive.

I realize that maybe I haven't found him after all, and the loss of all those years ago reopens like a festering wound deep in my soul.

I lie awake, night after night, thinking about going back to the hospital to ask more questions and exact more details. I think about ringing the hospital and pretending to be a journalist and try to find out his surname. I think about intentionally injuring myself again so I can go back.

Each morning puts paid to these my insane plans.

The hope lasts for a few weeks; the pain and disappointment linger on.

I bury myself in work, like I always have. I read and write and critique and teach and argue and eat and drink and sleep and wake.

He promised, he promised he would find me.

They were just words: an empty promise, the folly of a young, desperate man.

I ache, but the ache is so familiar I don't even notice it.

o o o

It's late. I've been at work way later than I should have, and I realize with a start I'm the last one in: all the lights in the nearby offices are off. I glance at my watch- nine pm. No wonder I'm so hungry and tired.

With a sigh, I switch off my computer and rub my eyes. I gather my things, turn off my lights, and lock the door behind me.

I exit the building with my eyes trained on the ground, still lost in thought about the article I've been writing for the past two weeks that refuses to reach a logical conclusion, no matter how hard I try.

I barely register my surroundings as I walk towards my car, lost in a cloud of tiredness and mundane thoughts.

An unexpected presence, a jolt of adrenaline: my first instinct is to run.

And then I see him.

All breath leaves me in a rush of shocked surprise; I drop my keys and my hand goes to my heart, suddenly threatening to jump out of my chest.

He's leaning against a low wall, so close I could touch him if I extended my hand.

It's Edward.

0 0 0

**A/N: so… what do you think? Yay, nay, or meh? Let me know!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: huge thanks to the lovely and generous Evilgiraffe82 and LJ Summers. Without them this would be much messier, and with a hell of a lot more commas.**

o o o

The shrill sound of my phone wakes me up. I put my head under my pillow, determined to ignore it, but it doesn't give up. It rings and rings and rings, each note burrowing deeper into my skull, beating in tune with my headache.

Whoever is calling knows I'm asleep and doesn't give a shit. In fact, whoever is calling positively wants to wake me up. Which can only mean one person. After counting twenty rings, I reluctantly throw the covers off and walk down the corridor to the handset.

"Emmett, you asshole." My voice is croaky and abused, painful to my ears.

"Good morning to you, sunshine. How did you know it was me?" The bastard has the indecency to laugh out loud, and the sound rips open another wound in my throbbing skull.

"What?" I bark into the receiver.

"It's eleven thirty and you know if you're not here in forty-five minutes Leah is going to cut off your balls, and mine too, for good measure." His voice is still amused, but I can hear the tiredness underneath. He's been working double shifts lately, and studying in his time off. My brother never rests.

"Shit." I hadn't realized I'd slept that late, and I know he's right—Leah doesn't take kindly to tardiness at Sunday lunch.

"Yeah, shit. Now go wash your pretty face and get your ass over here."

He hangs up, and I head straight into the shower. The hot water revives me and washes off the late night, the smell of cigarettes and heady perfume, the alcohol fumes and the stale breath. I stay in there longer than necessary, letting the warmth relax my tense shoulders, my back, my forearms. And then I stay a while longer, closing my eyes and trying to ease the headache.

I get to Emmett's house atexactly twelve fifteen—it's just around the corner—and take in the familiar, joyous confusion of their place. Music is blaring out from the kitchen—some horrible Latino tune, the sort of stuff Leah loves—there are knickknacks and furniture everywhere, and my brother's textbooks strewn all over the coffee table.

I let myself in—the door is ajar—and walk into the kitchen to find Leah viciously chopping something while Emmett washes dishes. I know better than make fun of him for being so whipped, still remembering the serious way in which he rebuked me after one joke too many: "American men help in the house, Edward."

My brother is very serious about his manliness, but even more so about being American.

I lean in to kiss Leah on the cheek.

"Hey chica, you're looking less green today." She flicks an onion skin at me, and answers back without missing a beat. "You're supposed to say I'm glowing, you know!"

"Glowing neon green, yes." Laughing out loud, I step away before she can catch me. I walk over to Emmett and pat him on the back.

"How you doing, man?"

He nods, turns off the tap, and walks with me to the sitting area. He looks exhausted.

"You look like shit, Emmett."

"Well, thanks, so do you, man." He lets himself sink into the sofa, sighing deeply, then passes a hand over his face, before leaning forward, elbows on thighs.

"No, seriously, you should take it easy… can't burn yourself out before the baby even shows up, right?"

Emmett ignores me and changes the topic.

"So what's new, Edward?"

I lean back into the chair, absentmindedly flicking through an old magazine.

"You know, same old. School's good, the club is good. Plenty of pussy to keep me happy."

Emmett snorts at that, and I hear Leah yell from the kitchen yell: "I heard that, you loser!"

I laugh. I always exaggerate for their benefit, but it's true that Leah—and by default Emmett—disapproves of my lifestyle. Occasionally that bothers me, but not enough to do anything about it. I'm pretty damn happy with my life, and girls are part of what makes the deal so sweet.

We sit down to lunch, and it isn't long until I notice the strange, tense vibes between Emmett and Leah. She keeps looking at him in a charged, meaningful way, and he keeps shaking his head surreptitiously; there are whispered words and a whole array of silent instructions going on. At first I figure it's something private, something to do with money—I know Leah's been sick a lot and had to miss shifts lately, and with the baby coming they've got a lot on their minds—but after a while it starts to get on my nerves. I come here to relax and reconnect with my family, not to absorb their domestic strife.

"What's going on?" I ask suddenly, and both Emmett and Leah stop, mid-bite, looking like deer caught in the proverbial headlights.

"Uhm… nothing. Why?" Emmett is so shit at lying; it would be comical if it wasn't so pathetic.

"Oh come on, you guys. It's obvious there's something going on. Are you going to tell me what it is, or do I have to start guessing?"

A loaded silence descends on the table. Leah is the first to speak.

"You should just tell him."

"Shut up," Emmett answers in an uncharacteristically angry whisper. I'm shocked, even if Leah appears unphazed.

"He has a right to know."

"Hey, what the fuck? _He_ is right here. What do I have a right to know? Come on guys, what is it?"

I'm agitated now, because Leah and Emmett never argue, never disagree- so whatever it is, it must be a big deal. And if it involves me… well, that can't be good.

Emmett is looking intently at the food on his plate and I can almost see him thinking about what to do. Leah is staring at him with that frowning, determined look I've come to know and fear over the years. She places a gentle hand on his arm, and squeezes it reassuringly.

"It's the right thing to do, baby."

Spurred on by her words, Emmett finally raises his head and looks at me; he shakes his head minutely, then pushes his chair back and exits the room.

He comes back a couple of minutes later holding something in his hand. He sits down again, and looks at me with a serious face.

"You know, it's your life, so you can do whatever you want with this. And I know it pisses you off when I tell you what to do. But you gotta know that I think this… whatever this is… is a bad idea. The past should stay in the past."

His solemn tone unnerves me. Emmett is only two years older than I but he's looked after me his whole life, in a gentle, unassuming way, without ever making it seem like it was a big deal. He rarely makes pronouncements or offers advice, but I hate to admit that when he does he's usually right.

"What the fuck, Emmett? Spit it out already," I say, forcing the words from between clenched teeth.

Emmett slowly extends his arm, and looks away as he hands me a small piece of paper. It's a business card. At first, I'm relieved: how much harm can a business card do? The way they've been going about it, you'd think it was a drug parcel or something equally explosive.

I take it, uncomprehendingly, and look to him and to Leah before scanning over it.

I read the words—name, title, telephone number, email—and nothing makes sense at first. I read it again, confused, disbelieving. It takes me a minute to fully register what it says, and it looks like a puzzle at first, like one of those scrambled letter anagrams you've got to analyze for a while before making sense of the words hidden behind.

_Dr Isabella Swan, PhD._

Isabella Swan… Bella Swan… Bella.

_Bella._

Suddenly it's as if the room has gone black. My head spins, my heart starts beating impossibly fast, and my breath catches in my chest so that I have to open my mouth and gasp for air. My hands are shaking and the words on the small piece of paper start to dance and I wonder whether I'm having a panic attack.

I'm vaguely aware of a hand on my shoulder and I try to shrug it off, but then it's two hands, two warm, soft, gentle hands tracing circles on my back, and I hear Leah's voice in the distance whispering soothing, encouraging words. I try to hold on to these words, try to struggle to resurface from wherever I've drowned. I grip her hand and turn to look at her—and in her deep black eyes I find an anchor.

"Edward."

I try to look away, but she cups my face with her two hands, and forces me to look at her.

"Edward."

I nod.

"Whatever it is… I know you can handle it. Emmett… he wants to protect you, he doesn't want to see you suffer. You know that, right? But you're not a kid any more, you don't need to be protected. This is your life, and everything happens for a reason. You're a man, Edward, a strong man. Nothing can hurt you so bad that you can't deal with it."

I let my sister-in-law hug me as I bury my face in her growing stomach, focusing on the fact that I'm mere inches away from my nephew or niece. The thought is strangely reassuring and I let her strong arms soothe me, realizing that this young woman, who's almost a sister, is the closest to a mother I'll ever have.

We stay like this for what feels like hours, but it's probably only a couple of minutes. Emmett is nowhere to be seen, and I guess it's because he doesn't want to see me having a breakdown. I know we're never going to talk about this. We're not the talking types.

I pull myself together. A breakdown? After all this time? No, of course not. I'm a different man. I'm a man. Leah is right. It's just a name, just a memory. I can just shrug it off. Forget it.

I stand up, hug Leah one last time, shout my goodbyes to Emmett and make my hasty escape from their suddenly too-small, suffocating apartment. I run down the stairs until I'm outside, and I breathe in the humid, thick air, forcing myself to count every breath, forcing myself to breathe on a rhythm—one, two, three, breathe. And again. One, two, three, breathe… until I'm in control it once more.

I start walking down the street, my hands in my pockets, my fingers playing with the explosive piece of paper I'm still clutching.

I try to keep my head empty, to avoid the temptation to just be plunged back into the hell that was my previous life. I list the facts I know in my head.

_I'm Edward Masen. I'm an American citizen. I teach composition and instrumental performance at the Liberal Arts College downtown. I play piano at Mike's every weekend; people pay good money to listen to me , I'm recording my first CD. I'm fucking good and I will make it big, it's just a matter of time. I've got a savings account with more than a thousand dollars in it. I've got girls, and friends, and a nice apartment. I've got a brother and a sister-in-law and I'll soon be an uncle to a baby that will look just like them. I've got nice clothes and designer shoes and a fridge full of food._

This is my life.

And yet it took a few syllables on a piece of paper to plunge me back into hell.

Bella.

_I'm a scared, lonely, desperate teenager. I'm cold, hungry, angry. I'm invisible. I've lost everything. I've lost everyone. All that my hands ever touch, or play with, or handle are cigarettes and a few dirty coins. I've got no passport, no prospects, no name. I'm driftwood; I'm garbage; I'm not human. I'm nothing._

Bella.

_I'm horny, I'm hungry, I'm lost in her touch and her scent. I suck the life out of her uncomprehending soul, suck the warmth out of her willing body. I take her pleasure and live off it. I'm an incubus, and she doesn't even know it. I want her, I miss her, I dream of her. I see her face in every passing woman, and I ache, thinking she'll never come by me again. And when she does, I devour her, I sink into her, I lose myself in her. I love her. She's everything. _

Bella.

_I've got two hours to pack. I want to run. I try to run. Strong arms hold me down, a slap on my face. "Get over yourself, this is our chance." I'm on a bus, on a train, on a plane. Toward my future, away from hell. Away from her. Around me there's cheering, and prayers of thanks, and quiet, grateful crying. We're lucky, so lucky, the luckiest. Papers, names, passports, and schools and jobs. _

Bella.

_I'm alone again. I thought I could not lose anything else, anyone else, and I've lost everything, again. My chest hurts, my stomach hurts, my soul hurts. I wake from nightmare-filled sleep sweating and panting. I see her face in every passing woman, and every time it's not her, my heart hardens a bit more. I'm something, I'm someone. I'm empty._

Bella.

_I choose life. I choose me. I have to live, to save myself. I promised I would find you, but it was not the only vow I made. I also promised I would fight, I promised I'd be a man. I promised to love my new country, to be brave and free. I promised I'd play the piano. I promised I'd pay back my brother. I've fulfilled all these promises._

Bella.

_I promised I would find you, and I failed you. _

_And now you've found me. Again. _

o o o

I walk for hours, my mood getting darker and stormier alongside the weather. I get home after night has fallen, and everything seems gloomier, sadder. I fix myself a sandwich for dinner and sit on the sofa with a beer, watching dumb sitcoms and hospital dramas. I absentmindedly try to work on a new piece, but only manage to hit discordant notes and stale melodies.

I go to bed, but sleep eludes me. I toss and turn for hours, angrily trying to keep the thoughts at bay. The little piece of paper in my coat's pocket feels like some gigantic, loud, flashing bomb calling out to me. I resist the urge to finger it and touch til I shred it, and I fight with all my self-control to push back any thought of what that piece of paper represents.

I understand why Emmett wanted to keep it from me, and in a way I wish he had. That part of my life is over, a closed door I never want to reopen. We've made a silent pact, my brother and I, never to revisit, never to indulge, never to give in to the regrets. He knows, like I know, that if that dam opens it will flood our lives chaotically, and that we risk being destroyed by the debris of our past. We have lost so much, and those aching, wounded parts of our soul are best amputated and cauterized. Forgotten.

We live in the present, live for the future.

There was a time when I would have given anything I had to find Bella. She was the light in the darkness, beauty in a world of ugliness, a bridge between my past and my future. I held on to her, and to her memory, like a drowning man to a raft. But as time went by, and our brief time together became more distant and dreamlike, she became an obsession, a fixed idea, a distorted, leering figment of my imagination.

I used to have nightmares, cruel and horrid, where I found her in the rain, in the fog, in the snow, reached out for her, only to have her dissolve as I touched her; or turn into a monster, or someone else. Every time I woke up, it was like losing her again. Every time I realized it was not true, I ached for the fact that her image was growing fainter, more distorted, overwritten by these sick twists of my subconscious.

Over the years, the nightmares subsided, and all thoughts of Bella got locked in a dark, unvisited corner of my mind.

I'm not lying when I say that I hadn't so much as thought of her in years.

And now… this.

I don't want to see her. I don't want to go back to the desire and the longing. I don't want to feel lost, and desperate again.

I don't want to risk discovering she's grown fat, or ugly, or is married with kids. Or that really she was never pretty, never sweet, never smart, but she was always an average, weird girl going slumming. Maybe she thinks I'm still a loser, and that I'm fair game, and that's why she's trying to get in touch.

Well, I'm not a loser, and I don't want to find out she is, either.

Why would I seek her out, only to suffer afresh?

o o o

Days pass, then weeks. The little business card is still there, burning a hole in my pocket, gathering dust on my nightstand. I tell myself I'll throw it away, but can't quite get myself to actually do it. It eats away at me, and I hate myself for it. Despite my best efforts to ignore it, the thought of Bella—Dr. Isabella Swan, according to the card— living so close to me, finally within reach enters my consciousness with increasing regularity.

_Just one look._

Not interested.

_One look won't hurt._

You should know about hurting.

_I don't have to talk to her. _

Be a man.

_Fuck that. _

And then I cannot fight this anymore. It's late afternoon, a Wednesday. My classes are over and the student I'm tutoring cancelled at the last minute. I get in my car, intending to go home, but without noticing I start driving in the opposite direction, toward the University. I've memorized the address in her card, and it doesn't take me long to find the PoliSci building. I switch off the engine and wait in the car.

I don't know what I expect. Will I see her? It sounds absurd. Will she see me? Probably not. Will I recognize her? This is insane. A memory of waiting, the fear of her not showing up, the fear she'd changed her mind… it all comes back to me and I'm tempted once again to leave and let it all rest.

People stream out of the building in a steady trickle, and my heart races and stops every time a girl walks out. But it's not her. Never her. I feel like I've lived this moment a million times, and every time I think I cannot take it any more.

And then I see her. There is no doubt it's her, there could never be any doubt.

She comes out of the building alone, her eyes on the ground, distracted, not really seeing anything or anyone around her. She says goodbye to someone in an off-hand way, and walks ahead with quick, small steps. From a distance, I can't really make out her features, but I'm hit by how small and young she looks. I have to remind myself she must be 26, 27 now… she's only slightly younger than I, and yet she still looks like a teenager, like a freshman at most—faded jeans, boots, a military style jacket and a messenger bag slung across her body. As she walks across the parking lot she brings a hand to her mouth and starts biting a finger, absentmindedly — her posture straightens, and I catch a quick glimpse of her face in the light of a nearby streetlamp. That flash is enough to make me almost double over in pain.

She's exactly as I remember her. I didn't dream those eyes, those lips, that too-small nose. I didn't dream her paleness or her tiny, sticking-out ears. It's as if time has stood still, as if nothing has changed over these ten years. The floodgates open, memories pouring out violently and angrily, words and dreams and shattering nightmares fighting to overpower and destroy me.

I start my car and drive away without looking back.

o o o

I stay away.

I want to work and play and plan and fuck and enjoy life. I fail.

I think of her incessantly.

I am angry at how easily distracted I am.

I am angry.

I want her gone. I want my easy, good life back. I want nothing of the past, nothing of _my_ past.

I don't want to be this vulnerable, this needy.

I don't want her to be real.

I want to see her again. I want her.

o o o

I wait for her at night, in the parking lot; I spy on her, even follow her home once. I want to know everything about her, everything I can construct from her clothes, her hair, the way she walks and the car she drives.

I learn she leaves the office late, almost every night, often on Saturdays and Sundays, too. I learn she's almost always alone; that she's tired, sad, and weary despite her teenage looks. I learn she has no clue, or maybe doesn't care, about fashion and things like bouncy, layered hair and makeup. I learn she rarely smiles, and I wonder why.

I also learn my heart still breaks for her, over her. It angers me that this girl, this girl I'd overlook in a crowd a million times over, this girl less beautiful, less imposing, less alluring than any of the women I've had over the years has so much power over me.

Time and time again I promise myself I'll walk away, I won't come back, I'll leave her alone.

Time and time again I remind myself of how far I've come—I don't need her, don't need a small, sad-looking girl from my sad past. I want to be strong, not weak and needy.

I've seen her, I know. She's real, she exists.

I have moved on once and can move on again. No ties, no baggage. I have enough of that to last me a lifetime.

But there's all the things I don't know. The things I can no longer remember, much as I try. Her scent. Her voice. What she feels like when I'm inside her. Her lithe fingers on my back. Those soothing, sure hands running through my hair, warming me up, giving me hope. Her lips, alternatively yielding and demanding.

Her courage, her clarity. How she accepted me and sought me out and pulled me back, again and again, when I had nothing, when I was nothing.

And I'm desperate to remember, desperate to live it again. Desperate to touch what I've seen.

o o o

I get out of the car. She's not out yet, and it's later than usual tonight. I pace, I walk, I think a million times about leaving again. I wish, above everything, for a cigarette. Finally I lean against a low wall, and that's when I see her.

She's so absorbed, so distracted she doesn't notice me until she's standing right in front of me. She lifts her head, sees me. She drops something, her hand flies to her mouth, her eyes grow huge.

Her voice: a strangled, hoarse whisper. My name on her lips: a prayer, a scream, a song.

"Edward."

o o o


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks, as ever, to Evilgiraffe82 and LJ Summers. They're the perfect betas: strict and supportive. Any remaining mistakes are mine.**

**Thanks, a million times over, to Chele and Emmy for reccing Love is but a Memory on the PPSS Blog!**

**o o o**

It's him. It's really him. My body knows before my mind can register it, and I am jerked into consciousness by the shaking of my hands and the waves of nausea hitting my stomach. My breath stops, then picks up too fast, too shallow.

"Edward." My voice comes out strangled, unfamiliar.

He doesn't answer. His eyes bore into me, and he's still, so still; I'd forgotten how still he can be. He doesn't move, doesn't blink.

Time stops, and in this ever expanding moment I take in his looks—the same eyes, the same angular features; shorter hair, and an angry set to his jaw that I don't remember. He's also bigger, more imposing, his shoulders more erect, his face fuller. It's the boy from my dreams, from my memories; only he's now a man. He's a man with hip clothes and a grey woolen coat, the sort of man who would intimidate me if I met him at a conference, the sort of man who I would never be able to speak to.

A man who's now staring at me, unmoving, and a rising sense of panic courses through me. My voice—my voice?— jerks me out of my stupor.

"You came."

His face softens, his intense stare abates, and the beginning of a tentative smile moves his lips.

"Hi."

I barely hear his voice, and I am desperate for more words, desperate for more closeness, desperate for him.

Neither of us makes a move to try and reduce the distance between us and I am gripped with an overwhelming fear that we'll never be able to close this chasm and break this impasse. The silence and stillness engulf us and suffocate me.

Finally, he leans forward, bends in front of me and picks up my car-keys. He hands them to me, still not speaking, and I reach for them, noticing my hands are still shaking.

"Thanks."

We're face to face now, and he's tall, so much taller and bigger than me, and this is wrong, this can never be, this is still a dream and I want to keep dreaming, because I know if I wake up I'm going to get a fully-fledged panic attack.

Still unmoving, he finally speaks. "My brother gave me your card."

His voice is different than I remember, an almost perfect Chicago accent overriding the lingering traces of foreignness. His tone is also deeper, the voice of someone who speaks little and with purpose. The voice of a man.

I swallow and nod, urging him to go on.

"He didn't want to give it to me at first."

I nod again. _Yes, that figures._

"I didn't believe it was really you."

There's something in his voice, something I can't quite place—it sounds like anger to me, like he's repressing some dark, explosive feeling. It makes me nervous and unsure of how to react. This is not at all how I thought our reunion would go.

I attempt a placating smile. This man scares me. I don't know him, he's not who I thought it was, he's not who I expected.

"I didn't want it to be you."

His words are cutting, dissonant, and any second now and I'll start crying and he'll turn around and leave, and any remnants of what we once had will be destroyed forever.

Displaying a courage I didn't know I possessed I lift my right arm and slowly, hesitantly bring my hand level with his chest. I don't dare touch him, sensing that I'd need his permission, sensing I'd be trespassing. Slowly, ever so slowly, he moves to grab my hand and brings it to his body, pressing it flat against the lapels of his soft, expensive jacket. A searing warmth seeps through, and my hand is trapped, and I feel the pressure in a million tiny points on my skin.

I look at our joined hands then up to his face. He briefly closes his eyes and takes a deep sharp breath. There's nothing I can say right now that would not make me collapse, that would not make him run. I'll stay like this, touching him, trying to make this real, for however long he wants me to, for however long he'll let me.

After long, charged minutes he releases my hand. Whatever emotion he felt is gone, and in its place is a pleasant, detached expression that makes my heart sink. I'm still at the mercy of a raging emotional storm, still incapable of knowing who I am or what's going on, and he seems so composed, so in control.

"It's good to see you again Bella. Funny how life can be, eh? Who would have thought we'd ever meet again?"

His tone is conversational and easy. We're two long-lost friends who've met again after a long time, casual acquaintances who simply lost touch. The pain in my chest is searing.

I nod again, and search for words that don't come.

"You look well."

For some reason his tone makes me feel sure he doesn't mean it.

I force myself to speak.

"You too… you look really well."

He shrugs and begins walking. After a moment's hesitation, I fall into step with him. At first his hands are shoved deep into his pockets, but he doesn't seem to be able to keep them still for long and he fidgets, running them through his hair, scratching his forehead, picking at invisible threads on his coat. It takes a minute to figure out why that's so strange.

"Have you quit smoking?" My words burst out as the realization hits me.

He looks surprised, taken aback. He laughs, and for a moment it looks like he might actually mean it.

"Yeah, I quit about five years ago. I can't believe you remember that about me."

I smile. I wonder if he smells different, up close.

We walk quietly down one of the campus's tree-lined pathways, in silence for a few minutes. There's hardly anyone around this late, and it's about to start raining.

He's the next one to speak. "Have you always been here? All this time?"

I shake my head. "No, less than a year actually. I came to do my post-doc."

"You're from… Wyoming, right?" He pauses before naming the state, and I get a brief sense his hesitation is not quite what he meant. Has he really forgotten where I'm from?

"Washington…What about you? How long have you been here?"

"A while."

He's giving me nothing, nothing at all. I have so many questions but am too intimidated to ask anything. I guess that's something else that hasn't changed.

We walk in silence for a while longer, and we're almost back at the parking lot. Just before we reach our cars, Edward slows down a little and turns toward me.

"So… listen. I play at this club, Mike's—you know? The jazz club downtown— on Friday and Saturday nights. You could come by sometime, if you wanted."

He doesn't phrase it like an invitation, but I grasp at this flimsy offering and speak too quickly, like an over-eager puppy.

"Okay."

He kicks at the dirt and looks away, eyeing me sideways, his expression unreadable.

"Cool. There's a good lineup this Friday. I'll leave your name at the door for you and someone else, you know, if you want to bring a… a date."

There's only a hint of hesitation in his words and they hit me like a slap in the face. A date? He wants me to bring a date? I don't understand why until I realize it's probably his way of saying he's not available. It occurs to me I haven't even noticed if he's wearing a wedding ring, and for all I know he might be in a relationship, married, with kids… it's been ten years after all, why wouldn't he be... People move on. Life goes on.

Just because I haven't, it doesn't mean he's not had a full, happy life.

"Okay."

He smiles a bit and his eyes soften, a glimpse of a new emotion illuminating them.

"Great, I'll see you there. Take care, Bella."

He walks quickly, without looking back, to his car—some shiny silver thing—and drives away, taking the corners too quickly.

I watch him disappear into the drizzling rain and finally allow my breath to flow freely.

o o o

I'm left shaken and lost by my encounter with Edward. I don't even know what he wants, what I want. It didn't really go the way I thought it would, the way I imagined so many times over the years.

I got my wish, my deepest, darkest wish to come true. I've found him again, and yet I feel as lost as I always have.

Dream and reality, memory and illusion blend and overlap and I am no longer sure of what I experienced and what I wished for; no longer sure of who I am.

o o o

Over the next three days I'm tempted over and over to forget all about it and not go to the club on Friday. I replay our encounter in my head a million times, each time finding new details to convince me that I shouldn't go.

He doesn't really want me there.

He said so himself—he wished it wasn't me.

He's not the same boy, he's a stranger. A man I don't know, and who doesn't want to know me.

He's not interested in me.

I've got nothing to wear.

I'll look like a fool.

I know nothing of jazz or jazz clubs.

What I do know, however, is fear, and I'm scared—of ridicule, of rejection; but also of loneliness, of this being the end. Where do I go from here? Where do I go, if the central episode of my life reveals itself to be nothing more than a figment of my imagination?

In the end it's this very fear that spurs me on. I cannot let this slip away without giving it a final try. I may be frightened of Edward, but I'm much more scared frightened of losing him for good.

o o o

My mind is set, but that doesn't mean it will be easy. The very thought of stepping into a jazz club by myself – for of course I'llbe going by myself, who else would I bring?—fills me with terror. I don't even know what I'm supposed to wear, but I'm fairly certain that none of my clothes fit the bill.

Thursday night sees me wandering through the mall. I spend almost a hundred dollars in creams and lotions supposed to smooth and de-frizz and rejuvenate and deep cleanse. I have no idea what I need or what is good so I just buy everything and cling to the hope that it'll all give me courage and strength and the sophistication I lack.

I wish I had someone to ask for advice on what to wear, how to behave… but my few friends back home are just as clueless as I am, and I'm not close to anyone out here. I briefly consider calling my mother, who would no doubt be thrilled to help, but I don't really want to be explaining why I am suddenly interested in clothes and conditioners and makeup; not to mention the very real possibility that her advice would end up making me look like a hemp-weaving hippie.

I push myself into a busy department store and walk aimlessly through racks and racks of beautiful, glitzy clothes, fingering shiny fabrics, admiring intricate patterns, marveling at vibrant colors I will never wear. The choice is immense and paralyzing and I am about to give up—on clothes, on everything—when a shop assistant approaches me. She's middle aged, quite formidably beautiful, and infused with innate elegance despite the standard issue black pants suit that constitutes her uniform. Her nametag says _Carmen_ and I want to run away and hide.

"May I help you?" she says in a deep, warm voice that is at the same time courteous and assertive. Something about her calm, composed demeanor keeps me rooted on the spot.

"Yes… maybe... I need some clothes for a…" _for a what? A function? A date_? "… an evening out. Something classy but not flashy…"

Carmen looks at me intently and nods slightly. There is no phony friendliness on her face, but she's not hostile; it looks like she's merely considering options.

"Will you wear a skirt?" She asks in the same neutral, non-judgmental tone she used earlier.

I shake my head quickly, and she smiles a little.

She starts walking through the racks and pulls a few items off the shelves and hangers, then leads the way to the changing rooms. I get changed into what look like simple, unremarkable clothes- a pair of fitted, sheer black pants and a slightly transparent indigo top with quarter-length sleeves- and walk outside. Carmen is waiting for me with her hands folded, and smiles again as she gently gets hold of my shoulders and turns me around so that I am standing in front of a full-length mirror.

I have to admit, I look good. Really good. The garments that seemed so simple and forgettable on the hangers make me look sophisticated and elegant, but still myself. Carmen gently reaches up to my head and releases my hair from its sloppy bun. She smoothes it down my shoulders with a gentle, motherly touch and raises an eyebrow in a questioning smirk.

I nod and smile wider.

"This looks… beautiful. Thank you."

Carmen steps away from me and acknowledges my words with a satisfied nod.

"Have fun, sweetie," she tells me as she hands me my purchases; I think she really means it, that she knows more than she's letting on, and I wonder what she would think if I hugged her now.

o o o

Friday is a write-off; I wake up late after a restless night, I turn up late for my lessons and forget a tutorial; once I'm in my office I get absolutely nothing done and I finally call it a day at around four.

I've done my research on Mike's, asked around among my trendiest colleagues and even went as far as calling the place up to confirm opening times. After thoughtful consideration I conclude that the best time to show up will be around ten—not too early that the place will be empty, but not too late that I risk missing the highlight of tonight's program, who, apparently, happens to be Edward Masen.

_Masen_. I try saying this unfamiliar surname out loud and wonder what's the history behind it, whether it's his real surname, a derivation of it, or just something brand new, a stage name of sorts.

Just one more thing about him that I don't know.

As I busy myself with the unfamiliar tasks of plucking, exfoliating, deodorizing, moisturizing, smoothing and glossing, I wish- for the first time- that I had someone to take with me, someone to lean on. A friend, a sibling… anyone. Perhaps even a _date_ My isolation never bothered me before —it's who I am, and I made my peace with it long ago- but even in my lack of worldliness I understand it's not quite normal for a woman to go out to a club by herself. It briefly crosses my mind that I should maybe let someone know where I'm going, but the thought of calling my dad to tell him that I'll be going out tonight in the hope of talking to a guy I met on a street ten years ago- oh and incidentally I lost my virginity to- is so surreal it actually makes me laugh out loud.

I'm ready at eight and there's nothing left for me to do but sit and wait. I watch some TV and try to eat something but fail miserably. The rising waves of panic threaten to overcome me, but I am determined to keep them at bay.

Finally, incapable of waiting any longer, I grab my purse and go out.

o o o

The club is dark and smoky. I give my name at the door and am shown to a table right up beside the small stage—someone's already playing, a lively ensemble piece that's loud and insistent. I'm so close to the musicians I can practically touch them.

My table is small, but it's clearly meant for two people, and I feel every pair of eyes in the locale on me. A waitress—too pretty, too glamorous—materializes and asks for my order; I panic, blurting out the first drink that comes to my mind, a martini. I can't for the life of me remember whether I've ever had one, what's in it, whether I even like it—it just sounds appropriate, and I drink it regardless of the bitter taste and sharp alcoholic tang. And when I'm done, I get another one, and let the buzz spread to my limbs and lull my head in a sleepy, falsely confident mood. I push away the disappointment I feel at not seeing Edward anywhere, at not being welcomed by him; I empty myself of all rejection.

As the alcohol spreads and the smoke stupefies me, it doesn't matter any more that I'm alone and awkward, that there's no sign of Edward, that all the women around me are beautiful and worldly and sophisticated, that I've been waiting for a long time and I'm hot and flushed. It all feels like a dream, like I'm floating overhead, watching myself, and I'm stunned by this confident, brave woman I see, focused and courageous in her quest for answers.

Then suddenly the stage goes quiet, the musicians drag away their instruments, until only a lone piano is left. There's a feverish, excited whispering all around the room, and a palpable sense of excitement and anticipation spreads around making the atmosphere buzzing and intense. It takes me a minute to realize what's happening and then a sudden silence falls, and everyone turns back, and I see him: it's Edward, walking fast towards the stage area, his head bent, his hands in his pockets, his eyes trained on the piano. He's wearing black pants and a black shirt, unbuttoned at the collar and turned up at the cuffs; his hair is wild and his features are set and grim.

It only takes him a few strides to get to the instrument. He sits down on the stool, turns toward the room and surveys it quickly, nodding in a small sign of greeting to the crowd. A tentative clapping answers back, but is quickly extinguished. Too much tension, too much expectation. All eyes are on him.

And his eyes… his eyes linger on me for a few seconds before dipping down to the keyboard. From where I'm sitting I have a direct line of vision to his face, and I realize I'm shivering with anticipation and nerves.

I've never seen or heard Edward play, though I've dreamed of this moment for so long. He is so gorgeous, so imposing, so in control, and the whole room is hanging from his every movement, an eerie silence having descended on the crowded club as we all wait for him to start playing.

He stills with his eyes closed for the longest moment, and then finally, out of nowhere, he starts playing. I don't know what I was expecting, but his notes are angry, dissonant and fierce, yet intensely familiar. It takes me a moment to place it, and then I recognize it: he's playing a Nirvana cover and it sounds at once violent and heartbreaking in a way I would have never expected. The rhythm picks up in unexpected places and then slows down almost to a crawl in others and the crowd is mesmerized and excited and he seems wild and lost and I'm shaking.

When his first set ends there's loud clapping and cheering and he barely acknowledges it, launching straight into the next song, and on and on he goes, playing spectacularly, exciting the audience into a frenzy, then shutting them down in an emotional stupor. The crowd vibrates and pulsates along with his music.

Not once does he look toward me, but I can't look away–- can't look away from his perfect form, the tendons bulging in his forearms, the fingers dancing and caressing and assaulting, the deep frowns, the private smiles. Sweat beads his forehead and falls down on the keys, and on and on he goes, racing and rallying. Time stands still and extends and I'm shaking, tingling with excitement, body and mind and soul aflame with longing and desire, paralyzed on my chair by the sheer intensity of my desire to reach out and touch him, the music devouring me and consuming me and exhausting me.

He finally stops, looks out to the crowd, nods and gestures to someone at the bar—a gorgeous waitress, not the same one I saw earlier –- a stunning red-head in a tight sequined dress walks over to him with a tall glass in hand and places it on his piano. Before walking back she runs a hand through his hair and down his neck, then leans down to kiss him; his body tenses in response, and he moves his head in a jerky movement that causes her to hit an awkward spot between his ear and his mouth.

Seeing her touch him so intimately sends a deep pain through me, starting in my stomach and ending in my groin. As if in response his eyes flash to where I'm sitting, checking I'm still there. They linger on me for just a beat and something unreadable passes over them—indecision, anger, hurt- I can't tell and it doesn't make sense. But just as quickly he looks away. His hand darts out to reach the woman, he pulls her down again, and he kisses her straight on the mouth, strong and obvious. I'm horrified and stunned, and through my suddenly crowded vision I can see his eyes are open and staring at me with so much fury I recoil.

The redhead walks away and he resumes playing.

I'm floating, miserable, devastated. I want to run away and disappear but am too ashamed to move, too shell-shocked to gather my thoughts together and act in response. I'm hurt, he's hurt me, and I don't know why or what pleasure he's deriving from my humiliation. I focus all my effort on holding back my tears, on regulating my breathing, on preventing my eyes from closing and never reopening again, too scared to look at him, too scared to never see him again.

I know I should leave now, I want to leave, and yet I stay glued to my chair, incapable of peeling my eyes away from Edward.

He keeps playing, even more determined and fixated than before, and in the distance I register the cheering and the clapping and the excitement. He drinks in between sets now, and gets refills, and his hands grip his hair when he's not playing and he never, ever looks my way; his neck is tense, veins buzzing with the effort of looking straight ahead, sweat running down his overheated skin.

The evening stretches into eternity. I'm sure I've never felt this lonely and cold in my whole life. Somewhere, somehow I still hang on to the irrational hope that this was all a misunderstanding, all a dream, that it didn't really happen and that before long he will stand up, walk toward me, take my hand and hold me close, and he'll be the boy I loved and lost and found again.

But nothing like that happens, and when he finally finishes playing he thanks the audience—wild, enthusiastic, adoring —and walks to the bar without a sideways glance. And still I cannot help myself from looking at him, following him with my eyes, and I find him surrounded by people who touch him, want him, and grab him.

He smiles and drinks and talks and keeps his head still—so still, the tendons in his neck bulging with the effort. I grab my purse and finally stand up, walking my walk of shame, passing just inches away from him. Finally, _finally_, as if in slow motion his head turns to me, and our eyes lock. His face contracts, his lips twitch and I catch a slight movement in his arm out of the corner of my eyes; but then someone grabs him excitedly and the moment passes. His eyes leave me, and he's gone.

I walk out of the club, sobs now tearing through me, run down the street till I find a cab, and head home.

Once inside I strip out of my pretty new clothes and push them straight into the trashcan, wishing them and all the hope they represent to be shredded and discarded. Crying, I step into the shower, rinsing furiously, so that all the makeup and products and disgusting smells of the evening run together down the drain, mixed with my angry humiliated tears. I slide to the bottom of the tub and sit there, hugging my knees, the water turning progressively colder until the crying subsides and the ache in my chest dulls into a low rumble.

I don't bother with clothes as I make my way to my bed, hair still dripping wet and, shivering from cold and exhaustion, I climb under the comforter and beg for sleep, for oblivion, for deliverance.

None comes. My brain refuses to slow down and images flash through my head: the sight of Edward's lips on someone else's overlapping with the memory of his body and the pain of his disappearance. I think of how pathetic I must have seemed to him, how pitiful were my attempts to dress up and impress him. Anger surges through me, indignation at his careless, hurtful actions. I ask myself over and over why, how he could have been so cruel, how could he defile our shared past so. I come to the conclusion it had all been a dream—all of it, my memories, nothing had happened, nothing from his side, he never cared, because how could he do this to me otherwise?

o o o

The doorbell almost scares me to death. It's so loud and insistent. It's three am a.m. I ignore it, sure it's a mistake, but reach out for my phone anyway, ready to call 911 just in case.

My heart is pounding in my chest and the doorbell doesn't stop. It rings, and rings, sounding desperate and insistent and I'm sure I'll finally have a heart attack and die tonight—the thought is almost welcome—and that makes me get up and throw on a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. Still clutching my phone, I make my way to the intercom and pick it up.

It's suddenly silent and I'm almost scared to speak.

"Yes." I whisper into the receiver.

"Bella!"

I drop it, drop the phone, drop to my knees. It can't be, it won't be, and how… why? How much more hurt can I take?

"Bella! Please, let me in! Bella, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry… please, please let me in!" His voice sounds desperate and begging through the tinny intercom, and once again I'm unable to move, incapable of thought. The intercom dangles just over my head and I hear him again.

"Please, please Bella. I… I'm so sorry, let me in, let me see you."

I reach up and buzz him in.

o o o

**A/N: yes, I know you probably want to kill me now... **


	5. Chapter 5

o o o

I see her and my stomach constricts: she's lovely, long hair flowing freely down her back, cheeks flushed from the warm room, eyes bright and wide and shaded with dark makeup. She's a woman, she's beautiful and vibrant and she's _alone_.

She's here, for me… so vulnerable and exposed, so obviously out of place, and the rush of concern and protectiveness that washes over me is disorientating and scary.

I look away as quickly as I can and become aware once more of the choppiness of my breathing. Before panic can take over I set my fingers to the keyboard, relishing the familiar smoothness of the keys and their solid, yet yielding, texture.

And then I play, I play as if my life depended on it, because right now–- right now it does; I let my fingers guide me until they hit a familiar tune and then I let instinct and memory take over.

I play, my eyes closed, and all the time I know she's there. I can feel her looking at me, I know she's listening and I'm losing track of what's real and what's imagined, of what I want and what I feel. All I know is that I'm drifting, that I'm scared, and I hate the fact my control is slipping, my grasp on myself weakening with every note, with every minute that passes.

I know there are others in this room, a crowd, and yet all that matters is that I'm here and she's here and this is real and it's the most elating and terrifying feeling all at once.

And I know… I know who we are, who she is, and it's a thunderstorm of emotions that slowly takes hold of every part of my being. Because Bella is love; Bella is hope; Bella is beauty and light. But Bella is also loss, hurt, and pain; and Bella knows my darkness, the darkness that can never quite leave me.

The Bella of my memories might have been a dream, but the Bella I see here, tonight—this Bella is real, she's alive and breathing and oddly, shockingly beautiful. This Bella pulls me in and draws me to her even as I push her away with all my will, all my strength.

And my will, my strength… they're all I have, all that has propelled me and sustained me over the years. I'm so used to pushing it doesn't even feel wrong.

I don't sense Victoria approaching behind me, but I grab the glass she's holding like a poisoned chalice that I want to drink dry. Whiskey on the rocks, the good stuff she knows I like, and I down it in one go and it feels good, so good, the burn waking me up and cooling me down at the same time. She touches me then, and at first I jerk away, recoiling from her eager touch.

And then I turn around and there _she_ is, her eyes unwavering, expectant, and they're eating me alive, demanding to own me and possess me, demanding that I surrender, that I go back to her, that I go back… back.

And it would be so tempting, so natural to answer the lure of her eyes, let myself go, and stand up and go to her and dive into the dream I've refused to dream for so many years, accept that she's my destiny, and I am hers, because otherwise how could it be? How can any of this make any sense at all?

I see her then, clearly and vividly as if for the first time—I see her courage, her strength, and how's she's come after me, again and again, how she's never stopped believing, never stopped dreaming, how's she's descended into all sorts of hells just to find me and fight for me. She's braved dark alleys, seedy hotels, and now this smoky, pulsating place. This is all I've ever given her, and perhaps it's all I can ever give her.

She's so beautiful, so limpid, so unmarked by all the ugliness I've exposed her to, so unaware of just how much she's already given me and how much more I'm ready to take from her.

And it suddenly seems so clear— with her I'll be myself, really myself, and that will destroy me, and I will destroy her, and she'll let me, and she'll _ask me to_, all thoughts of self-preservation behind her. And all I'll be left with is something that was once pure and beautiful and precious and now is tainted and ragged and worthless.

Panic blinds me, denial courses through me.

I grab Victoria's hand and pull her hard against me. Her body is pliant and familiar, and when I kiss her willing lips they taste of decay and defeat. All the while I look at Bella, and see the hurt in her eyes, her face crumbling, her shoulders sagging as if all breath has left her.

I've done that. I've done _that_.

_You see that, Isabella? That's me. Run away. Get away. Go live your life. Be smart, be pretty, be happy. Forget me._

_I'm bad news for you, sweet darling girl. The ugliness and the sadness stick to me, and you of all people should know that; you of all people, you who know where I come from, what I was… you of all people should know better. And if you didn't, and if you don't, look, beautiful thing: look. I'm cheap and I'm cruel and I'm a whoring piece of shit._

I push Victoria away and I resume my set—the show must go on. I drink after that, glass after glass of straight whiskey, trying to erase the taste of another woman from my lips, trying to erase the knowledge that I'm a lying, cheating, hurtful asshole.

I drink and I play and I don't know what I did, what I'm doing, what I want.

I hope she's left, I hope she's angry and pissed off and yet I dread to think she's gone. Because if she's gone… if she's gone, that's it.

I don't dare turn to check but I vow to myself that if she is, by some miracle, still here, I'll run to her and apologize and beg her to let me touch her, to let me hold her. I'd beg her to hold me and to forgive me. I'd beg her to start again.

When my set finally finishes and I take a bow I see her standing and gathering her things, her movements jerky and automatic, her posture unnaturally straight. I want to go to her, so badly, to gather her in my arms and show her I can make it all better, somehow. But someone gets to me first, and another fucking drink is in my hand, and I move to reach out and touch her, but my senses are too slow and too dulled from all the drinking and the laughing around me, and something, someone has to talk to me right now and they grab me and they spin me and when I turn around again… she's gone.

All fight leaves me then, and as my mind resurfaces from the haze of alcohol and adrenaline it's lost in all that's left is cold, and shame, and a loneliness so intense and acute it almost knocks me out. What have I done? Why, why shut her out? What for? Is this really all I am? All I stand for?

I sink into a chair and stay there slumped and dazed for a long time. The club empties and Victoria comes to me and tries to run her fingers through my hair, but I brush her away, disgusted at myself.

"What's wrong baby?" Her voice is low and sultry, but not dishonest—I know she genuinely cares about me, and that makes me feel even worse about the way I've treated her, tonight and all those other nights. I shake my head, refusing to speak, looking away.

Her shoulders slump just a little bit, her posture abandoning her seductive stance. She leans down and grabs my face in her hands, forcing me to look into her eyes:

"You, Edward Masen, are a self-indulgent, narcissistic asshole. And that's fine, plenty of your kind are like that and to be honest I wouldn't give a shit about it, if it weren't for the fact that I'm fed up with your mood swings and guilt and self-recrimination. So fucking boring. So you either embrace your bastard tendencies and enjoy them, or you stop it already."

She gives me a hard stare and lets go of me, turning around to leave the club, her hips swaying slightly, tight against her shiny dress.

Her words hit me like a kick in the guts. I don't want to be that asshole, that cold, lonely, self-sufficient guy I'm trying so hard to hang on to.

Her words give me the strength and the clarity I need to run out of that bar into the cold, wet night; I know where she lives, even though I shouldn't, I've followed her there before. I'm ringing her buzzer forever, with a growing desperation and a crushing fearful hope. _This time I won't give up, Bella, you hear me? I won't give up on you, I've come to find you… let me in, let me make this right_.

I ring and ring and ring until her faraway voice echoes in the empty street.

I beg and plead and apologize, and she lets me in.

o o o

I run up the stairs until I'm standing in front of her door. Trembling, I stop there, unsure of what I will find, of what I will say, of how I can possibly make it better. My face is moist—from the rain, or sweat, or tears, I don't know, and I don't care. I'm frantic, hungry, impatient and terrified.

I place my hand on the door and it yields easily to my touch, already half open.

She's standing there, her hair wet against her shoulders, her eyes puffy and red, her skin pale and translucent in the harsh landing light. Her expression unreadable.

"Bella… Bella, I'm sorry, so sorry, please, please forgive me, I would do anything to take it back… I'm sorry." I start to speak fast and hurriedly but the determined fury in her eyes stops me dead in my tracks.

She lets me walk in and closes the door behind me. She walks up to me, still, silent, vibrating with anger. For a long moment neither of us speaks; my loud ragged panting the only noise in the still apartment.

When her hand hits my cheek it's loud and shocking and so right. I deserve this, I want more. I wish she'd hit me again. I welcome her anger, her indignation, her fury.

My skin stings from where her fingers collided with it and I want to burn the mark into my skin, I want a permanent tattoo, I want to never lose the feeling. Never forget what I've done, and never stop atoning for it.

"Why, Edward?" Her voice is raspy and tired from too many tears. "Who is she? Your girlfriend? How could you make me come to your concert, only to humiliate me like that?"

I shake my head, and reach out for her hand. She takes a step back. It hurts, and right then I think that maybe I've lost it; that it's too late.

"Please Bella. Let me explain. I'm so sorry."

She leans against the wall and closes her eyes. I reach for her hand again and this time she lets me take it, and I hold it tight within mine, and bring my body close to hers, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off her and the resistance she's trying to offer against me.

She opens her eyes and looks at me, and in that look- in that look is everything. It's forgiveness and expectations and anger and hurt and confusion. In that look is everything including the seeds of what I want most: desire, lust, love.

"She's nobody, Bella. Nobody. I wanted… I don't know what I wanted. To scare you, I guess. To see if you'd stay. To make you go… I don't know. I don't know. She's nobody, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry that I hurt you, I'm sorry I did that to you."

I want to feel her, to taste her. I want it so bad, and right now it seems like it's the only thing that matters. I bring her hand to my lips and I press it against them, feeling the rough texture of her shaking fingers, daring myself to never let them go.

Bella places her free hand on my shoulder and forces me to look her in the eyes.

"Why, Edward? Why the distance? Why did you try to push me away? Why did you want to hurt me like that?"

Reluctantly I part my lips from her fingers, still holding on to her hand.

"I was scared. I still am. I… the way I lived when you met me… who I was… I was ashamed of myself, Bella… I still am." She tries to interrupt me, but I don't let her. "You've seen me at my lowest, and I don't want to feel that low anymore. You saved me, and I don't want to be saved anymore. I'm a coward, Bella."

She disentangles herself from me and turns away, walking toward her small living room, up to the window, and presses her head against the glass pane. I follow her and stop just behind her. The light of the street casts an eerie glow into the room, bathing it in a reddish light that seems to make everything soft and unreal.

She stays silent for a long time. When she speaks, it's without turning around, without looking at me. "You can never, ever hurt me like that." Her words shame me. "You understand, Edward? If you ever humiliate me like that, I will walk away and never let you near me again."

I know she means it and I nod, even though she cannot see me. And then I say it, out loud:

"If you let me into your life, I will never do that again to you, Bella. I promise."

I reach out for her, placing my hands on her shoulders, waiting for her permission to do more. When she doesn't move, I tentatively take a step to close the distance between our bodies and hug her from behind, gently at first, then more tightly, and let my head resting on top of hers. I close my eyes as I hold her, inhaling deeply the unknown scent of her hair. Gradually her body relaxes into me and she brings her hands to rest on top of mine; it feels so good, so unbelievably, undeservedly good.

"I promise. Now please… please say you'll forgive me." My voice is barely a whisper, and hers doesn't come at all: she just nods and relaxes a little further into me.

"Please say it. I don't deserve it, I know, but please, say it anyway."

"I'm so mad… but I forgive you. I want to, I want to… forget this evening. Forget everything. Forget all those years ago…forget you."

I spin her around and pull her against me, all her resistance gone. She falls into me easily, almost dizzy with exhaustion, her body light and small against mine.

"Don't forget Bella… don't. None of it. I have never forgotten anything about you … nothing. I remember everything, every single time you kissed me, every single time I touched you. Every stolen moment we spent together all those years ago. Every single time I missed you, and dreamed of you. Every time I thought I'd lost you and would never see you again. The day I saw you again after all these years… I will never forget that day."

My lips brush her hair and I'm close to crying.

She speaks into my chest, her voice reverberating deep into it.

"And now… Edward, what do you want from me now? Why are you here?"

With as much tenderness I can muster I take her face between my hands and bring it up to mine. Her eyes are swimming with tears, and in that moment she's more beautiful than I ever believed was possible.

"I want you. I want _you_, Bella. Only you, all this time. Only you, now. No one else. I know it now. I've always known it, I think, but I was too scared to admit it."

The apartment is silent and almost completely dark, and I feel that my whole life, my whole future depends on this one moment. I'm standing on the edge of a precipice: this moment decides everything. She could tell me to leave, and I'd have to accept it, and I'd have no one but myself to blame. She could close the door behind me, and lock it, and I'll have to live with this loss forever.

Her hands slowly slide under my coat, sure, safe, purposeful. They trace the panes of my chest, then travel up to my face. She runs her fingers over my lips, then over my eyes. I open them and she's inches from me, staring intently, her lips slightly parted. Her kiss, when it comes, is like nothing I've ever experienced, and like everything I've always remembered. It's soft at first, chaste, exploring. I let her lead, show me what she wants, how she wants it, how much, how strong, how far.

My heart beats so fast and I'm shaking, drowning in the intensity of this moment.

I keep my eyes wide open, and she does the same. We kiss with our mouths, with our eyes, with our hands. When she pulls away it is only to smile at me, a smile that breaks my heart and makes it whole again.

"Don't you know you've always had me, Edward? How could you doubt that? How could you try to deny that?" Her fingers toy with the buttons on my shirt, and she's mine, all mine, and I pull her even closer, and I know I'll never let her go now.

o o o

We sit on the sofa and I hold her for a long time. Her body molds easily into mine and gradually time seems to shrink and retract. I am transported back in time to another place, another country; our bodies the only constant in all the upheaval that has been my life, our lives, in the intervening years.

I stroke her hair, and reverently, slowly allow my fingers to familiarize themselves again with her soft skin, the curve of her neck, the shape of her face.

Just like all those years ago, I'm amazed she's here, she's not running, she's not scared of me.

Just like all those years ago I know I barely deserve to be here, with her, and just like all those years ago I want more, more, more and I hope against reason she does, too.

We kiss and kiss, our mouths and tongues reacquainting themselves with each other.

Our hands fumble, hesitant at first, then bolder, and our clothes are gradually lost, and then it's only me and it's only her, and she's in my arms, on my lap, and we're teenagers again, and nothing else matters, nothing else has ever mattered, nothing else will matter ever again.

Things happen much faster than they rationally should, and yet it all feels unnaturally slow, like a dream or a fantasy I hadn't allowed myself to indulge.

Undressing Bella, undressing with Bella in her sparse living room… it should feel awkward and it should feel wrong and yet it's the most natural thing in the world. A moan escapes my mouth as I remove her t-shirt to find her naked underneath, the sight of her skin, of her breasts, of her navel driving me wild with desire.

I pick her up, slowing my kisses but not stopping, her legs wrapped around my waist as I take her toward her bed, and she's lying on her back, her hands in my hair, our bodies firmly pressed into each other.

I feel all of her, and all of her is feeling.

I want her, I want her so much I could die from want.

"Edward." She pulls away from me and her voice is solemn and serious. "I don't know you. Who are you? I didn't know you then, either. It killed me, all those years, that I never knew you, that I never asked more questions, that I didn't try hard enough... I felt that when you were gone… It was my fault for not trying hard enough to get into your life, to get to know everything about you."

Tears pool in her eyes and I want them gone, I want those eyes to only ever hold joy and love. For me, forever.

"You know all there is to know about me. Everything I am… you've always known it… you'll always know me."

My head sinks into her shoulder, and I taste the saltiness of her skin; my senses remember what my body had forgotten, what my mind refused to retain.

"You still taste the same," I whisper into her neck, my tongue darting out to lick her earlobe.

She shivers at the contact, her breathing uneven and labored. I pull away and run my fingers down her arm, up her side, through the valley of her breasts. I cup one gently, brushing my thumb against her nipple, relishing the sight of her shivering again. I look up to her, smiling.

"These are still the same, too."

She tries to pull away, apparently self-conscious.

"Bet you wish they weren't. Still small and insignificant."

I shake my head, and reach down to take one nipple in mouth; I lick and tease, eliciting a delicious moan that shoots straight to my groin, making me even harder than I already was.

"Still perfect."

I travel down, kissing her soft abdomen, stopping to trace an unfamiliar scar to the left of her belly button.

"This is new…" I look up to her, and she smiles, a liquid, languid smile, and her hand reaches for my hair, tugging at it gently.

"I had to have a mole removed."

I nod, then continue my exploration further down, with my fingers and my mouth, eager to reacquaint myself with a body that once consumed every one of my thoughts and desires, to reignite memories that were just flickering at the edge of my consciousness. And then I'm in uncharted waters, exploring new territory, suddenly conscious that there is so much about this woman I don't know, so much about her body that I never experienced.

She tenses when she feels my lips reaching her pubic bone, her legs clamping together, but I pry them open with my hands. I kiss the insides of her thighs, lingering, worshipping, then look up to her. Her dark eyes are fixed on me, anxious and feverish and desirous.

"Let me." I plead and command at the same time.

She leans her head back into her pillow and in doing so her back arches slightly, one hand gripping the bed sheets, the other digging into my scalp more forcefully.

She shudders and moans as I lick and savor and invade. Her body jerks and clenches and vibrates, and I'm hard and wanting, and although I want to drink her forever I let her pull me up and draw me in and guide me inside her. Her mouth seeks out mine and I push my tongue against hers so she can taste herself, her eyes closing as she gives in to the eroticism of the action.

She whimpers and brings her legs up around my waist, and I push, and I pound, and I grunt as I come and she screams, again, and again, and again.

o o o

We sleep, we wake up, we make love then drift off together, arms and legs and fingers and breathing entwined.

All night we trade questions, secrets, memories.

"What do you miss the most… you know… from before?" Her voice is hesitant and soft, faraway, dreamlike.

I think about it for a moment, then turn away from her to face the ceiling.

"Water. Tap water tastes like shit in this country."

She laughs, thinking I'm joking or avoiding the question. I kiss her stomach and smile into it, unseen. How to explain that when you've lost everything it's the smallest details that hurt the most, that drive home your loss every single day? How to explain the need to anchor myself to small, mundane details, to define who I am, where I come from?

"There was this place… this swimming pool near where we lived. It wasn't fancy or grand, just a regular public pool, but in summer they'd open it up and they had this ice cream, it was delicious… I learned everything there. Learned to swim… to dive… to fight… to kiss."

I demonstrate by placing small, soft kisses on her collarbone and get lost into the dip of her neck, so delicious, so perfect. I stop, and pull her to me, relishing the way her hair tickles my chest.

"What's your favorite color?" A question for beginnings, a question I should have asked ten years ago. Maybe I did and I forgot. Maybe the answer has changed.

"I'll tell you, but don't laugh."

I laugh just hearing her say that. She pulls away, feigning offense; I pull her back and hold her tight into my arms, kissing her quickly on the tip of her nose.

"Tell me. I won't laugh, I promise."

"Grey. My favorite color is the one everyone despises." She pauses for a few seconds, perhaps waiting for my mocking. It doesn't come, and she goes on. "To me… it's depth, and a concealment. The color of clouds and rainy skies, of nothingness that can burst into life with a single ray of sunshine."

I kiss her again, and run my fingers through her now messy, knotted hair. Her breathing evens out and I think she's fallen asleep again.

Minutes later, her voice startles me.

"I loved you, Edward. Back then….I loved you."

My answer flows out so easily, almost stunning me.

"I loved you too."

"I wish I'd known. I wish I'd told you." Her voice almost breaks with tears as she says this, regret tingeing her every word.

I'm silent for a long moment, caressing her hair in a rhythmic motion that I hope is as soothing for her as it is for me.

"I did tell you. I told you every time. I sang it to you, and recited it. You just never knew."

She looks up at me, confused. I say the words in my language and watch as recognition slowly dawns in her eyes. She buries her face in my chest and I feel her wet tears on my skin, feel her uneven breathing reverberate in my own body. I hold her, and rock her, and hum a long-unsung lullaby in her ear.

We fall asleep like this, and it's hours or minutes later when her voice startles me awake, pulling me from shallow sleep.

"Do you think… do you think we can love each other again? Do you think it's crazy to hope that after all these years we can still get back to what we had back then? "

I fight to swim back to full consciousness, fight to find the feelings, fight to turn these feelings into coherent words.

"Bella… I want to love again… I want to love _you_ again. I want nothing more. I want to have you, and to give you myself. But I can't afford to lose you again. Losing you once almost destroyed me, and losing you again… it would kill me."

She lifts herself up onto her elbows, her face ethereal in the early morning light. Her hand cups my chin, pressing hard into it. Her eyes are serious and intense, but her face is soft, her lips turned up in a beautiful smile.

"You won't lose me Edward. And you should know by now that, even if you do, I'll always find you."

o o o

**A/N: this chapter was really hard to write. Let me know what you think... good or bad. I am amazed and grateful for every single review.**


	6. Epilogue

**A/N: this is the last chapter—a short epilogue of sorts. Thanks, cheers and tears at the end :)**

**Stephanie Meyer owns.**

o o o

The night of Edward's CD launch party, I wear a short, tight dress with high-heeled boots and sheer pantyhose. Buying this outfit was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time and I can't wait to see his reaction.

We meet at the venue, straight after work, and I have a long coat that covers my legs and hides my secret. When I take it off, Edward goes two shades paler and pulls me close, a feral look in his eyes. He whispers in my ear before kissing my neck: "Always wear short skirts like that, okay? God, I love your legs."

I laugh and take his hand, and he holds it all night, keeping it close to my body, occasionally brushing his fingers against my thighs. He never lets me go, parading me and using me as a shield all at once. He's excited and nervous, proud and shy at the same time; his emotions come off him in waves and I love that, from my privileged vantage point at his side, I see all those facets of him.

We drink champagne and smile at everyone, laugh with everyone, all the big names and the important people and the better-known musicians that show up— even with the few journalists that hang around, gorging on canapés. The sparkly wine makes us giggle and the elation of the evening makes us happy and we kiss and smile so much my jaw hurts and I can't stop kissing and smiling some more.

He lets go of me to play a few pieces and as usual the sight of Edward at the piano sends me shivering and combusting all at once. I can't quite believe my luck, his luck. I know that everyone in the room wants a piece of him, but he is mine—entirely, irrevocably mine.

When the evening comes to a close, we are both drunk and my feet hurt. Edward carries me on his back all the way home, and I hold his shoulders and pull his hair and bury my face into the soft collar of his jacket. I breathe in deeply, getting dizzy with his scent and the warmth of his body. He runs with me on his back, unsteady and playful- like a kid, a teenager- pretending to drop me just so he can spin me around and kiss me against a wall or a car and run his hands under my skirt. I slap them away but I'm clumsy and slow and I don't really want them gone.

When we finally get home, he lowers me onto the bed and climbs in with me, pushing my skirt up with feverish, uncoordinated movements.

"I've wanted to do this all night," he says in a strangled voice as he fumbles with my panties.

"You just want a girl with a short skirt and a long jacket." I tease him, elongating all the vowels in a mock singing drawl, and he bites my neck teasingly.

"God, you've got such shit taste in music."

I laugh as he throws my panties onto the floor. Without bothering to take my dress off, without teasing or playing, he buries himself deep inside me, and we make love in clumsy, sloppy drunk motions; I just can't stop laughing, and he comes too soon and I'm laughing and moaning all at the same time and he just chants my name like a symphony into my hair- "_Bella Bella Bella Bella…_"—and then he puts his fingers where he knows I'll come undone and I'm not laughing anymore, but screaming now and everything is perfect.

And afterwards, before we fall asleep, I tell him I am so proud of him, and he just pulls me tight and smooths my hair and kisses my forehead and tells me he loves me, so much, so much.

And everything is perfect.

o o o

The phone rings out at five a.m. and Edward runs to it like it's a fire alarm. We dress quickly and ten minutes later we're tearing down still-sleepy streets and parking outside the hospital and running to the elevator. We walk down long, unfamiliar corridors and Edward pauses when we reach the right door, hesitant, unsure. I hug him quickly, and he nods and knocks softly before going in.

Leah is sleeping, and even in her rest she looks exhausted. Her skin is pale and her beautiful black hair is messy and knotted on her pillow, but there's a serenity in her features that fills me with awe.

Emmett is walking the room in small, rhythmic steps, a gentle dance to a tune that's only in his head, and he's holding a tiny bundled infant. It looks so small in his huge arms and he looks so beat and so ecstatic; I wish I had a camera with me to capture this precious moment. He lifts his head when he sees us and smiles a big, joyous smile that illuminates his whole face, but his eyes immediately dart back to the baby in his arms, as if he's scared it'll somehow disappear.

Edward takes a step toward him and lays a hand on his shoulder, patting him awkwardly for fear of endangering his precious bundle. Emmett gives him an encouraging nod, and he reaches out to stroke the baby's face, his eyes filling with tenderness and emotion.

They exchange whispered words in their language, and then Edward asks a question, and Emmett pauses a moment before answering.

"Rosalie," he says in a voice charged with emotion.

Edward's face crumples and tears spring freely from his eyes as he gently, lovingly strokes his niece's tiny hand with his long fingers. Both brothers are crying now, and I take a step back and busy myself with arranging flowers in a vase, giving them this private time to remember their mother, lost long ago and never forgotten, now reborn through her American namesake.

o o o

Edward and I loved each other when we didn't even know each other's names. Our bodies, our souls, our dreams took the lead; reality is playing catch-up and it's a long, sometimes difficult road to travel.

Here are some things I've learned along the way: he's tidy to the point of obsession and hates that I leave my books and papers all over the place when I'm working. He can't cook and doesn't even try. He loves long, lazy baths and will quite happily spend an hour in the tub, reading and dreaming and god knows what. It drives me insane.

He's at his most focused and productive between midnight and three a.m., and no amount of complaining, from me or from the neighbors, will ever sway him if he's decided he's got to try out something new. Most nights he comes to bed several hours after I do, and he presses his cold body against mine, waking me up, wanting to play. And it annoys me sometimes but he knows that I'll always relent and I'll always want him, and he'll always make it good for me. So good.

And some other things: he can be aloof, abrupt, and often plain rude. He craves tenderness and soft touches and sweet words. He doesn't always deserve them, but he gets them anyway because he's liberal and sincere in his apologies and truly ashamed afterward.

He's proud, so proud of my achievements, in a way that not even my parents are. He corrects people who address me as "Miss Swan" with so much annoyance it makes me laugh. I tease him he has a "doctor fantasy" and he doesn't deny it. He loves to show me off and never tires of telling me how beautiful I am, how perfect, and how lucky he is to have me.

Sometimes he disappears in some dark, angry, lonely place inside his head, and he loses words and smiles and sleep. He loses music and hope and he's scared and too proud to ask for help. I never could have guessed how often I'd have to honor my promise and find him back, bring him back from wherever he is. How often I'd have to coax him and let him bury his face in my hair and hold him tight. I reassure him that he's okay, we're okay, the future's bright and clear and we'll get through it, through anything.

That side of him is mine alone. To others we must appear mismatched, ill fated—his beauty and charisma disproportionate, inappropriate to my quiet, unassuming life.

I know better. I know there is a strength and a courage in me that are my own and my own only; I know he needs it as much as I need his glamour and passion to ignite me and bring me to life.

He healed me: he made me a whole, stronger person, aware and proud of my worth and my uniqueness.

I heal him, every day, just by letting him be himself—scared, angry, insecure. Traumatized. Normal.

Because I fought for him, for us, I know I'm a fighter; because he surrendered to me, to us, he knows he's not alone and doesn't have to depend only on himself to get through life.

He makes me sparkle and I keep the flames from devouring him. Together we burn strong, bright, eternal.

One day we'll look back to our lives, we'll reflect on how we found and lost and found again. One day he'll sing sweet lullabies to babies who will have coppery hair and long eyelashes and pale skin. But today… today I just hold him, let him sink into me, devour the feeling of being young, free, in love. Today I'm greedy; I take all that he gives me, and demand more.

I gave it all up to him: my heart, my soul, my life.

He took it all, and gives it all back, magnified a million times.

The keeper of my heart, my soul-mate, my life.

o o o

**A/N: So…. This is it. Did you want more? I did warn you this was going to be a multi-shot rather than a proper multi-chapter, didn't I :)? Still… I'd love to hear your theories as to what Bella and Edward's future holds. **

**From my side, all I can say is that writing this short story has taught me so much and I am incredibly grateful to every single person who's read it, reviewed it, put it on alert, favorited it, tweeted about it… you are amazing and you made me so incredibly happy.**

**Special thanks to the magical LJ Summers who did a great job of making me look good, even though I'm sure she despairs at how little I listen to her; to EvilGiraffe82 and HoochieMomma, my number one readers; to all my TSA sisters who keep me sane and make me feel loved; to Chele and Emmy who recced this on the PPSS Blog and almost gave me a heart attack.**

**Over and out.**


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